Dear editor,

My name is Christina, and thankfully I'm safe. It's a good feeling, you know — one that we so often neglect to give enough weight to and validity of purpose in our common language when we speak words which implicitly upon their use let us know that we are talking about life or death — and the moments found lingering and hanging suspended in between are where life or death is decided.

Are we safe or not safe? As many of you became painfully and publicly aware, my life here in Frankfort was often marked by both unsafe and safe by way of rescue from its adversary, (and also from my imminent demise should those moments have been spent calling to question the validity of requests for help and whether or not the more citizen assist calls which saved my life were to be taken seriously, even in their sometimes far-fetched and dramatically described and/or recanted in a state of confused desperation and exhaustion or fear of a safe moment not being yet found as secure). And, by God's grace, I am alive to speak matter of factly about it, as this month topic of priority suggests I should.

Nearly 17 months have passed since my attacker was present — to be seen clearly and in person and where accounts could be taken as to what had occurred and a report made of broken furniture, bones, skin, glass, and words meaning clearly not safe. I beg of you to consider heavily the in-between moments.

Christina Robinson


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