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Purple Heart
she greeted herself
on her way back from war
because nobody else
had believed she’d been
gone.
in that terminal
she was sat ‘til she wheeled away
—half a mind, half a leg—
because no one around had she
recognized.
trying to talk,
she was pushed from her
mom, counselor, psychiatrist, psychologist,
but she didn’t want to talk
anymore.
so on her chest,
I painted my own purple heart
because I knew that she was
a wounded survivor of
Myself

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