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You poor thing, you. You only came here to get some food for your empty stomach and pay with your own money that you worked so hard for and, oh my, someone put a hand on you.
I feel a little awkward, like maybe I should be ashamed Because I don't think I was born with the right to write a poem about race My skin is not black or brown or red, not even my hair or eyes are naturally dark
He is mine. Mine, and you can't take him away. Not for my fairness or my wellness or his fate. Im cream. Deal with it. I am his. So stop stopping me.