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Once upon a time, there was a girl who had bad experiences.  She did things she shouldn’t have; said things she did not mean.  She confessed her sins, but could not let it rest there.

Once upon a time there was a writer.  She wanted to write things, but she was afraid that people would misunderstand her words.  She wrote about trivial things, but her soul refused want to be held there.

The girl would go to the confessional and repeat nearly the same offenses to the priest.  He would give her the same penance each time.  It became a menial cycle of  non-discussion.

The writer often went to the pen and paper to expel all that was wired within her conscious.  But the truth would not be revealed: the loss was seen to be worse than the gain.  There was no forgiveness.

The girl’s surface admission of guilt, while kneeling in the confessional, became a repetitive monotony.   Her intentions were good and offenses slight and yet the impact was non-descript.  She tattooed upon herself a self-inflicted scarlet letter.

The writer did not want to betray her soul, but to conceal it seemed a sin.  Her life penances and glory clearly could be shared and understood.  However, denial and ignorance became the writer’s transgression.  She inherited a stagnated psyche.

The girl would not let the ink stain her life forever.  She moved and looked toward a higher power than the words woven through lattice to the human ear.  She felt she’d find her truth there.

The writer finally found the ink must seep deeper into a conscience not yet explored.  She knew only when the words are allowed to speak the truth of it, would an inscription of self worth be placed upon a personal throne.

The girl lettered forgiveness.

The writer’s forgiveness cultivated.

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