Why do I talk about my abuse when I talk about myself? Am I more than my abuse? Has understanding the consequences of being abused unintentionally become self-defining? Does my abuse define me, as well as make me? Who am I without my abuse?
This is uncomfortable.

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Mirror, Mirror

“With broken breath, in misty meadows,
I seek refuge, hidden beneath shadows.
In, the unwelcome sense of familiarity crept.
My face in thorns, alone I wept.
Along these paths I would often trek,
Wringing my hands unwillingly from my neck..”

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