Grave Faring Firstborn, Child Of Dead Things

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I sometimes wonder what it would have been if I were born right.
To have known from the very beginning that my life would be
meaningful in a room full of lives.
I wonder then, perhaps, if I would be less worrisome.
My mother picks twigs & bones from my hair,
spindly fingers like an old scarecrow.
To her, I was born right.
To her, I am her grave faring firstborn.

- a.a.j

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