In her midnight childhood, the truth she couldn’t explain, the truth that’d be her end if she did. Each thought was two, one formed in her own words, the other edited to expectations to save her life. The mirror’s image exposed the lie, so she closed her eyes to see the she that she was on the inside. ©March 2021 Christina Anne Hawthorne
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Lydia Rae Bush Poetry
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I'm not insane, I'm a writer.
Christina Anne Hawthorne 