As if redemption comes from one flash of lightning? From
one great loss or one unexpected reward? Not in a story
like this. You learn slowly, painfully, the skin you are
trying to moult ripped unwillingly off your body, the scars,
years later, still burning red when the night descends. You
try not to see differences. A better love. A better wound. A
better prayer. You try not to colour and label them. You learn
to compensate. To string rope bridges across the void. To
count footsteps in the dark. To cross over to the other side.
Until the face in the looking glass is no longer yours. Until you
no longer know what you buried deep inside the matryoshka
dolls. You never grow up. You never rebuild. You rename the
differences. You recolour them. You make excuses for the
void. You reimagine yourself. You watch the storm from
inside a house without mirrors. Silver lines of rain holding up
the sky. The better wound. The better skin. The better pain.