I had a bad habit of mumbling through my words, and lowering my head when I was embarrassed or guilty. You had a habit of placing a finger underneath my chin, telling me to look up, like a child, addressing the habit gently. Chin up, darling. 

Everything in life goes back to our childhood, our traumas, our fears. We both realized this early on, and I tried to give you a sense of security, while you said I reminded you of someone you loved and lost, to life, to its cruelty, taking those we love from us, those that continue to run through our veins, a blood line that you can’t sever. 

I was that blood line. And perhaps, you preferred to murder yourself than have me pulsating through your veins. 

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