I wouldn’t have been able to imagine doing this three years ago.
I smile into the mirror as I run the comb through my wet hair. Three years ago, I would’ve flinched at what I saw, or maybe glared in defiance.
Today, I look at the monster staring back at me—glowing red eyes peering into mine, black ooze sliding from its lips and dripping from its jaw as it snarls and snaps its massive teeth—and I don’t look away.
Looking at it has never been hard for me. I was raised to confront the monster, to tame it, to carve it into something acceptable. "God cannot love our monsters," they told me. "So we must cut them out of ourselves."
I spent years trying. Finally, I decided: if God can’t love my monster, He must not be very loving.
I reach out and touch the glass, stroking my fingers over the monster’s cheek.
“I love you.”
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