What I know, deep inside of my body, is that every woman has a story worth telling. Every woman has a history, a legacy, a cobwebbed attic in her heart crammed with memories and expectations and should and don’ts and wishes. Every woman has her dark corners where the worst, most decayed, rotten, saturated stories live. They are the broken, disfigured ones she is too ashamed to bring out into the light. Here live the aborted desires, the ugly truths, the deformed and misshapen secrets we know will earn us judgment, or worse, pity. They are the ones we fear our lovers will think of every time they touch the tender hides of our skin if we let them out.   What I…