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sandra wyllie
Poems
Jul 2020
My Market
lets people in without
a mask. It exposes ****
and ***. I push myself,
not a cart. I call this
a work of art. I hand over my
body. I pour out my sweat. I swear
I work myself to death. I just
asked for 4 days in Paris. But
they closed their borders
and turned me down. So, you see
this girl is gagged and
bound.
Written by
sandra wyllie
60/F/Boston
(60/F/Boston)
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