Whereas my sexuality had once hidden my goodness from their view, my suffering seemed to expose it. And yet, I knew I was the same person now as I had been then. Just as selfish, just as selfless, just as caring, just as careless, and wearing the same little dresses and skirts I’d always worn. My sorrow made me purer in their eyes—stripping me of my sexy vitality, and allowing them to forget my body. But as for me? I was more aware of my body than ever—of how much I missed it. And as I lay in bed I would have traded in the church’s newfound perception of me as good to be able to run and jump
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