March 15th, Year 22

My speech wasn’t always vociferous. It was meek and delicate, like tiny bells. Their melodic tinkling, easily swallowed by a bird’s gentle chirping. This made me good. And what good does it do to be good, as a woman. Oh, but as a child, it grants you the golden key. It grants you love and approval.

There are those that would, and did, eviscerate me. With every caress, my father held my entrails in his hands. But, I had the strength to be my own surgeon. I did this all quietly, because I was good.
When my mother held her silence, and by doing so, becoming an accomplice to his crimes, I was good.

The shame kept me bound, kept me good.
The rage kept me paralyzed, kept me good.
The depression kept me confused, kept me good.

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March 15th, Year 22

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