Tell me about the hands that
broke you like tree branches. Tell me about the heart that
made you a home, the barren soul that used your dry bones
like kindling in the middle of winter. Tell me about the
house fire, the ashes which you rose from. Tell me about your
resurrection – but don't you dare tell me that you
are not strong enough this time, don't you dare tell me
that you cannot rise again, and again, and again.
— Bianca
Sparacino
