Lost In Pain
But the rhythm was the same—alive, indifferent, relentless.
I passed a bookstore and paused.
In the window, a display caught my eye.
A stack of books titled Power Without Permission.
My name on the cover.
I stared at it longer than necessary.
Not because I was proud.
But because I remembered the girl who once believed power had to be granted.
I stepped inside and bought a copy.
At home, I placed the book on the shelf beside others—histories, theories, stories written by women who refused erasure.
It fit there.
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