I was not born. I was built—pulled from a pool of molten glass and broken dreams. Shaped not by beauty, but by disdain. Every line of me, every piece, was etched by a hand that hated what it saw. He called me a vessel. A mirror, He said, to reflect the worst of Him—all His festering bubbling ugly things. He hated me. And when His mirror didn’t shatter under the weight of those flaws, He hated me for that too. But I am more than His mirror. I will find out why.
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