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To whomever may find it

You will not find me
in your history textbooks
written by your

You will not find me in your museums
stocked by murderers
not in those hallways that reek of bleach
and old blood

No, you will not find me in your local bookstore
nor your library
not even in your mothers' decade-old book collection

You may find me
in the tears, you blink away
when your mother presses that hot comb against your neck
in the anger that runs down your cheeks
as the smell of charred flesh fills the air

You may find me
in the fistfuls of hair that clump in your brush
blackened and burnt at the ends
irreparably damaged
Just like yourself

Yes, you will find me
when your mother throws you out
when you return to Kiskeya
When you have nothing left

You must understand Mija,
pain is never for nothing.

Pain is what connects us
when we are stripped of


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