Being a girl growing up without a dad is like being a big complex machine missing one tiny bolt. Most of the time, the machine works and apparently has no problems. But, every once in awhile, it fucks up and no one seems to know why. You can’t trace something that miniscule and hidden, it’s one of those small pieces that seems so insignificant. Yet, the bolt is doing so much more; it is a central piece, a lot of things about the machine are banking on it working, and just being there.
The malfunction seems so harmless in its nonchalant prying apart of your soul, not flagrantly, not massively, but still prying.
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