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There are days when my brain feels hollow, as if every thought has drained away, leaving nothing but white noise. Other times, the words I want to say feel scrambled, like an anagram or a secret code I’ve somehow forgotten how to solve. I re-read some of the poems I wrote as a teenager and
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I used to tell myself (and others) that I didn’t have any skills—that writing didn’t count for me because no one cared what I had to say. I said it so many times that I eventually stopped writing altogether, and I guess then, in some ways, I made it true. I buried the memories: the