Mila Jaroniec

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My then-boyfriend used to say there was something gross about strip clubs. “Strippers just pretend to like you,” he said while smoking outside a strip club where we were buying a cheap dinner. “Who wants to pay someone to pretend to like you?

“I drank some coffee and my outlook improved immensely. I was ready to write some poems and, I don’t know, get drunk, run around, take my shirt off and get kicked out of someplace. You know, live a little.”

The window glass is cold against my forehead, uncomfortable and refreshing, the freezing outside air filtering through the skin to the subcutaneous layer to the bone to the frontal lobe, the chill twisting all the way through to the core.…

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