I shed my layers like an old skin – my shawl, the netted muslin at my throat, my underskirt – until all that remains is the shell of my dress, as sea green as the gown of Loro Kidu.
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Wings of Fire
Writing, like love, is complex and fraught with ambivalence. It can feel elusive, intangible, and it can make us doubt. But, like the best kind of love, it can also raise us up...