For my mother

I just want to be beautiful. Not so that people will look at and love me, but so I can look God in the face and thank him.
I have been called many things that sour mouths had not the courage to spit forth into my ears but,
I was not moved.
I saw that way he didn't like to talk about his love for me, I think it was my biggest pretend but
I was not moved.
I don't really remember how it was to tell her I was wrong in the head. I do remember that she let the tears dribble down just shame me. Guess what though.
I was not moved.
Perhaps to my own detriment the softly tilting world makes my mind's lips cut unkindly on the way I have been treated in it.
I'm angry by choice.
I smile because I think I have to.
Inside I think I see everything, but I might just be making it up.
I read into it so it can't put a hand to turn my pages.
I'll never be much,
but what I am is


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