When I was a little girl, an evil man clamped his hand over my mouth, stifling my screams and taking away my voice. It took almost four decades for me to pry away his fingers and let my voice be heard.
Maybe I ramble. Maybe my stories are mundane or boring. Maybe, sometimes, I say something that makes you think, or feel, or itch. Maybe I’m simply screaming from the top of a mountain, and there’s no one else to hear.
It doesn’t matter. It is my voice, and I claim it.
If I write darkly, it’s because I believe that light shines brightest in the dark. Perhaps that makes some people uncomfortable. Perhaps it should.
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Today’s prompt: Why do you write?