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My body remembers—even when the rest of me forgets—that I am not made for curtsying.
Because I am not all right. I am a hurricane barely contained in skin.
My mother’s face looks back at me from the mirror. Her freckles dance over my nose and cheeks like unmapped constellations.
Something in me is waking up. This is not my home. I am not their prize. I am not content with the life they have so kindly spared.
