Audre Lorde

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In this space they tell us is home    We  Are often made to feel like we need our straight-jackets  Urged not to squirm, Not to scream,  With hushed voice   And warm mouth
I have forgotten the way we loved with salt still on our skin,* but not every secret hurt. Blocked out the image of the stained blood color of your lips against her pale parts, the sweetness
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