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Like a Weed

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Sometimes at night she pounds her face into her pillow, fancying that her face is her fist and her pillow is Papa's face. Sometimes she lies rigid as a log, her mind screaming all the words she wants to say to him.

In daytime she plays the obedient daughter, cooking and cleaning and nodding her head. Whenever she has a free moment she runs to the woods, rests in tree branches. Dreams of running away until her legs collapse under her. Dreams of returning home and finding Papa gone forever.

Of wishing away her magic? No, she treasures that power.