My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann

— Stories from the Roads (Not) Taken

Before Everyone discovered Someone’s bones, 

Someone stored their faces in a box in a drawer in the middle of their dresser and,  mornings when they awoke, tried on each in turn, discarding each facsimile as smallish or loose or lacking in some necessary, elusive detail  heard about but never seen (like unicorns or potted gold), until— desperate and late— they chose at random and hurried unsettled into an indifferent world.

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