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On Thursday,
I crawled out of my mother’s skin,
Already dancing in disappointment,
And my father’s week-old gin.
Never to learn or build or choose,
If this just born body can’t unpin,
Opening the hidden soul,
Which I could slip within.
On Friday,
They wrapped stitches between my thighs,
a ring around my finger,
And another child to baptize.
Not that I could walk to church,
When my blood spells lies.
Or that’s what the cross says
When I speak of my freedom’s own demise.
On Saturday,
We marched across our unwritten letters,
Broken bones,
And blood-hiding sweaters.
Danced for the choices we  make,
Red washed leathers,
And a better sown world,
Crafted in newly broken tethers.

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ambivalentThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Mar. 30 at 9:35 am
love this so much - you are very talented and the fact that you are writing about such important instances as this says a lot about you as a person. ❤
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