When you are 16 your bones, like a cage, house the bare heart that has not yet grown its shell.

You are, 16, a paradox, an enigma, a question asking — Yes?

Perfect invincibility in one hand, absolute vulnerability in the other.

You stand quaking with your naked heart, draped in soft plaid and thrumming confusion and feel the stunned and stunning power rumbling deep, waiting to roar.




Write it down.

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