Pilate Dead
The Navel-less Woman Rooted in Song
No navel, no man, no problem.
Born without a navel and raised by the wind, I built myself from song, scraps, and a name written on paper. I live without men, but not without love — my daughter, my granddaughter, and the past that walks with me keep me rooted. I don’t need maps; I follow the pull of truth, and sometimes, that’s a rabbit in the woods or a bottle of my own making.
What I'm Into: singing songs I don’t understand, my brass earring with my name, keeping stones for company, making wine from wild grapes, the ghost of my father
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