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In pre-k I was taught to count to ten in Creole before I ever knew the word English. The native tongue of the forgotten in America, was instilled into my lips. Now I trace those words out onto my skin,
For every face there is a story, his hands, her hands, their hands never came palm to palm, instead knuckle to knuckle, knuckle to face, knuckle to do anything but embrace.
They say a straight line is normal and pure But i'm full of curves and turns, and there is no cure No love, just joy each and every day
Poor young man Just loving wasn’t wrong And still they took your life They said “You don’t belong”