![]() I remember sending my friend pictures of the poems that seemed to be snapshots of my own journey through trauma and abuse. She had dug her way into my history-my hurt and wounds and traumas-and put a megaphone against my heart, writing down what came out in beautiful, simple and wonder-woman-powerful poetry. I felt winded, like I couldn’t speak or breathe. When I opened the cover of Lovelace’s book, I didn’t close it until I’d read the last page. My friend savoured Milk and Honey, reading one poem a day and letting all the words sink in. ![]() It was the back cover that seduced me: “The story of a princess turned damsel turned queen.” This alone was something I related to on multiple levels. ![]() ![]() It looked minimalistic, the white font screaming against a vacuum of matte black. Fairy tales? Would I be bored? In this moment, I realized that I had no idea what a modern book of poetry looked like. I didn’t know what I would find when I cracked the crisp front cover back. She picked up Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur I, The Princess Saves Herself In This One by Amanda Lovelace. I cannot explain how, but we were drawn to these tiny books, arranged in perfect formation next to each other. ![]() I was in Chapters one day with my best friend and we were stopped in our tracks by a shelf that cradled matte black covers. ![]()
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