Young gal,
Thinks she’s a saint to be,
Rashes become scabs, hidden from view,
Pushing, shoving, toward what she’s sure she needs
Young, free,
Picking the scabs all day,
Some can ignore, not her, can’t ignore
Digging harder, harder, and harder
White whales, and holy grails,
Born within, they’re something else from outside,
These are the things that move us
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