Girl With The Beads

She has beads,
and they are like mine.

They are the colorful beads that make noise as the wheels spin on my bike,
and in my head I play that liberating sound as I watch her pedal faster, stopping only to acknowledge the three looming houses of her masters,
prisons of her memory,
cages for a songbird who could not fly.

And when I look into her eyes, I see me.

I know now what I must do.


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