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Denver wasn’t a name.
It was a cuss word.
One my dad was shouting at me from his worn out, stained recliner at the front of our even more worn out, double wide trailer.
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I stand from the uncomfortable chair I’ve been sitting in. I move to fix my hair before I get closer to the bed, but then I remember it doesn’t matter.
Because if I wasn’t worth enough at my best, surely my messy hair, torn gown, and filthy body covered with dried blood—me at my worst—will change nothing.