Justine’s mother lined orchids in every window sill, and each one had to be fed once a month with a noxious powder made of dried slaughterhouse blood. She would coo at them, run her long, calloused fingers down their fleshy white petals which were shot through with tiny purple veins, and inspect their deep folds with an embarrassing intimacy.  The orchids would respond in unison, trembling in the breeze from the open windows.


"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

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