I used to think about what it’d be like to reach the pinnacle version of myself - the noise of each mouth who told me the person I’d one day become clanking around in my already full head. I’ve outgrown that girl a dozen times, pausing each time I round the bend to remember what she gave me, and to thank her for who she wouldn’t allow me to become. It’s quieter now...only the sunlight and my voice echo off the walls I independently own. I think their mouths may have grown weary of trying to tell the story, and just started listening.
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