Magazines for sale

I have a few things left that I need to let go. The scar tissue tells the story that I haven't told. I didn't know it was human trafficking. Picked us up dropped us off, motivated us to sell their magazine's. When we made ourselves fifty bucks, they made themselves four hundred. Promising one day we would be on the other side of the hustle. I'm just a neighbor doing a fundraiser, is what most of us would say. I'm selling magazines to go London. Today is my last day. Door after door and city after city. People opening their wallets just out of pity. I became one of the best, maybe a legend if you will. Only fresh memories of violence and drugs, the day our boss was killed. Murdered. By some Cubans claiming self defense. I will never forget that Hotel. The shock I was in when I called my parents. It seems like I have always been chasing that dragon, living in my worry free land. Completely hammered to the point I couldn't stand. Even in those moments, completely lost in my head, I realize there is still light in my soul. I realized the essence of me isn't dead. The FBI talked to us in Houston, asked if anyone was there against our will. The sure had us convinced we weren't, surprisingly that day our pockets were full. I never knew about the MOB. Sure I've heard about it, seen it in movies. I didn't know I was apart of it. My rose colored glasses made everything look groovy. I survived sure, but my soul is forever broken. How can I un-tell a thousand lies, unspeak the words that I've spoken

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