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 Nov 2013
Aya Baker
My mama don't hit me no more
But that don't mean she can't cut me down
To the bone like she used to;
Words axe-sharp to whittle away
All the illusions I had created for myself
Those of security and confidence and self-worth-
Glances flitting over me
Like I'm not even there,
Like I'm not even worth looking at.

— The End —