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She walks the Grand Boulevards of the capital wearing a cross on her back as though it is cutting edge fashion. The thick beams eat into her flesh, the heavy planks weigh her down and the splinters sliver each nerve. She parades the streets of Paris, stumbling, bleeding and seeking out the crowds. She stands in the public eye, displaying her pain, showing her suffering, modeling her wounds.

We plead with her to cease, to rid herself of her burden and to heal herself but she refuses. Her torment was tailor made she says, pain-staking work by the grand designer. We beg her to remove the cross and resurrect her life, but even if she abhors the cross, she wears it well.

The next time you see her beneath her frown of her thorns, catwalking amongst the people, look closely at the sign affixed to the top of her cross. You’ll notice the monogram on the tag is not that of the grand designer. The initials are hers. The cross she wears is her own pattern.