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My fingers are stained with red: a rusty, dirty red. Not the kind of red that bleeds but the one that lingers. If you were to judge me by my hands you’d probably never talk to me.
By Purva GroverMy fingers are stained with red: a rusty, dirty red. Not the kind of red that bleeds but the one that lingers. If you were to judge me by my hands you’d probably never talk to me.