MISSING
is printed in bold capitals above a grainy photo of my beloved. Her name is wrong though. That isn’t what I call her.
I tug at the top left corner. The grimy bricks cannot cling on to her. The poster and its protective sleeve come to me eagerly, and I reach inside to extract the innards. They stink of ink not flesh but I consume them anyway. Then let the unwanted plastic fall to a pavement shiny with rain. The sole of my loafer presses down, drowning it in a puddle. The facsimile tastes bitter compared to the original.
~ Carmilla Voiez
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