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And yet.
She lives in that hyphen—the “mi…”—the unfinished syllable between mirror and mind , between misogyny and misfit . Some days, she calls that hyphen freedom: the refusal to resolve the contradiction. Other days, she calls it exhaustion. Empowered feminist trained to be an object - mi...
Some nights she caught herself in the window’s reflection—perfectly angled, waiting for an appraisal that hadn’t yet arrived—and felt a surge of rage so clean it could fuel a city. Other nights, the rage collapsed into a smaller, uglier question: What if the training worked? What if I’m most powerful when I’m most object-like? And yet
She read de Beauvoir by flashlight under the covers. She marched with signs that said My Body, My Choice . She could name every fallacy in a patriarchy-apologist’s argument before he finished his second sentence. Other days, she calls it exhaustion
The split lived in her sternum.