It’s always been a love story.
When you wanted to cut yourself up. When you offered yourself up to doctors to fix. When you wondered, every minute of every day, how you were wrong and what could be done with you.
It’s always been headed towards love.
It’s always been headed towards running your hands over yourself, marveling at the plump heat, the quickly healing skin, the miles walked, the escapes executed, the visions held onto.
It’s always been headed towards strength. Every time you recognized a game being played for what it was, and you saw you weren’t born a patient to someone’s doctor, a project for someone’s master plan, a speech for someone’s fundraiser. They can look in mirrors to see if their masks are straight, you don’t need to be what they rescue.
It’s always been headed towards certain knowledge that damsels end up saving themselves, and then…
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