My Words are a Whisper, My Words are a Howl

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I bowed down at the altar of should and ought to and don't trust that dissembling soul of yours. I pressed my forehead hard against the prayer rug until the carpet fibers imprinted the skin there into the permanent creases born of a disembodied life lived for everyone else. And then one day I feel something, silver-new and dissonant. . . .

Read more from My Words are a Whisper, My Words are a Howl at Beth Morey: Beauty from Ashes

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