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…on the noggin

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Laying bare me quill, he wound up and touched me again on the noggin with a cuticle. No sharp edge of a blade, just the soft, rounded push of a finger, a blunt reminder of the body behind the ink. He moves like a slow-spinning gear, gathering momentum, only to land with that singular, waxy point against my skull. The quill rests, exposed and hollow, while the skin of his hand claims the space where the thought was supposed to be. Again, the tap. Again, the quiet weight of a hand that has forgotten how to hold the pen, preferring the bone. Laying bare me quill, he wound up and touched me again.

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