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You try to hide your fear behind a veneer of strength, try to put up a facade of calm but beyond the outer strength is the odd tear that slips, unguarded.
You stand bewildered at the fork of the road. Left? Right? Blending into an instructable sameness, certainly uncertain of where your Redemption Days lie.
To the confused, every coincidence is an omen, the whisper of God rustling the leaves one way, or another, but what if like lemmings one must jump?
--- For the Day 11 prompt at NaPoWriMo, a sapphic without all the fancy trochees and dactyls…