I scrubbed the shame from under my fingernails,
as if guilt could be washed like dirt.
Cold showers never baptized the ache;
just gave it discipline,
a neat little collar for the beast inside.
They called me godly.
I stood on pulpits of silence,
hiding my hard truths in folded hands
and stitched lips.
“Virtue,” I said once,
like it was a sword I...
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