Everything in my kitchenette is hand-me-down. The microwave came from a friend's mom, the boxes from an auntie and the faulty gravy dish from one of the nans. Mom's mom I think. The one I never met. The one who lived a scandalous life and left lots of silence behind.
My surroundings are filled with hand-me-downs and I like it that way. Lived, shabby and imperfect. Just like me.
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