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Dark Side of the Wound: When the Hurt Makes It Beautiful

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My eyes are shoved shut so tight I can physically feel the skin pulling taught behind my ears.

The first pristine pricks of the threat of a shattering cry are stabbing at the backs of my thin pulsing eyelids.

Fuck.

Even against the massive concrete resistance I’ve barricaded up, or maybe because of it, scorching tears pierce through and streak inky, crooked, blackened tracks across my cheeks.

Every drop of pent-up anger, shame, loss, greed, regret, jealousy and confusion plunges out of me onto the hardwood floor beneath my naked knees.

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