Not YearsIt was not years, but secrets chiseled into her once youthful face. Careless nights of alcohol and men had bred a species of hatred that coursed through her veins. Her wardrobe of moods lay in disarray on her bed. She never threw out her tattered underwear, placing them instead in what was meant as a jewelry box. Lifting its lid, a broken chorus wafted into the spaces around her. Pieces of torn, sometimes shredded, cloth mangled beyond recognition. Crotches missing or slit, jagged seams or pitifully threadbare. Only a careful eye would find the writings. Names of lovers, places, approximate times and dates. Blunt intimations strewn across fa