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of course not;

“You say you love your mom; what have you done for her?”
I did what I could have done for her
The only sacrifice my meager hands could offer:
I bled for her in ink while you blindly dealt your blows
And made up for what I lacked for in obedience
With a meticulous record of all the debts I must repay
But if that is not love for you, if my scrambled love
Is the reason you hate me so, I must remind you—
That you called terrorism on a child’s soul “love” too




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