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When you found me, I was a mote of sand, I was a glass snake. I was a mother, and then I wasn’t. I was a gaping wound that you poured fire into. It soldered the broken pieces of me until I looked like the stars outside your bedroom window, spinning in eternal rodeo. But I couldn’t love you, so you slid me back into my house under a closed door. My husband saw me and screamed, and when I looked down, I saw my uterus clinging to me like a luminescent meteorite, pink and dripping and fusing back into my flesh, right at the broken place, right where you had touched me