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My Name Is Generation

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Grandmothers whispered their dying secrets
in to the ears of girls running out
of the house, already late for hair appointments.
Don’t tell me that I am beautiful.
Don’t tell me that I have sinned.
Tell me that it is raining, the one thing that we can agree upon, the one remaining deity that connects my skin to yours.
Your god is crying, and mine is ashamed.





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