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Women have always had to apologize or bend to their will. We were punished for their weak character. In doing so, we helped them keep us down like pitiful creatures they claimed us to be. When in truth, we were the dragons. Even in death, I’d go down with talons and flames.
“And when I saw you tonight, I realized something.” “What?” His thumb slid over my lips, tracing them roughly. “The wolf isn’t leashed… and yet it still runs back to you.”
People considered “breaking” a sign of weakness. I disagreed. Bending meant you could be molded and shaped into something else. I may be full of dents, scars, and trauma, but whatever they did to me, they could not bend and form me into their idea. They turned me rigid. Titanium. I broke; I did not bend. I snapped; I did not bow. They did not twist and cast me into something different. My broken pieces could be forged together. Made stronger.
