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Bookfeast All the texts on child abuse excessing her shelves transform the starving girl into the gluttonous voyeur. Like a leech gorging on the bloodfest her anorexic soul balloons briefly with her binges into pages obese with accounts of victims who have healed by purging their hoarded secrets, spewing them into receptacle ears like ancient Romans into their vomitoriums. The very existence of the texts screams proof of abundant hearing, literary banquets of receptivity. The scared-silent skeleton takes her breakfast vicariously, feasts her eyes on words to line her ribs with, each page a measured morsel of sustenance she gobbles up, slavering Dickensian indigent. Chris McGuire |
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