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I chose to keep my writing private. I shared it with no one, hiding it in drawers and under my mattress. To me, it felt like pornography, a secret desire, a masturbatory exorcism of private thoughts I wanted no one to censor. If I were to look back at those journals now, they would be a laundry list of angst about secondary sex characteristics and how much I really got the boy who wrote poetry on his arm in English class, but it felt very controversial to me at the time, revolutionary even. When I wrote down the word breasts, I heard the Ses as a snake’s hiss in my ear. I was Eve, willfully embracing her fruit, and it felt delicious.