Growing is the race against the time that tails you with ungodly perseverance, it places you in the furnace that moulds you to the best of its restricted capabilities. Growing is the soft song of the nearly-grown, playing with fervency, come nights starlit or day broken at dusk. Growing is unusual. Growing is arduous. Growing may be willed to nothingness, but remains a process so human, without it one would be rendered unimpassioned.

Growing in my fragmented world within what previously appeared to be a journal of one, entailed rites of passage that I have so dearly detested.
Her Songs of Faith and Fury are the telling’s that harbor a home of consideration for every woman and the multitude of experiences she hid behind a self constructed wall of courage. They detail a select few of the plethora of challenges that pre-womanhood has posed not only for me, but...