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A little girl lives within me, harboring my painful truths. I close my eyes and escape to her world. The nightmare, I've named it, affectionately. So simply, this little girl's reality. I hear her cries, pleading, yearning, rabid and unending. Flailing about, destroying everything she comes in contact with. She doesn't care about image, or prestige or family honor. She's simply hurt. The little girl is desperate. She grasps at the shadows of a mother and father, begging them to stay. Begging for love and peace. She bleeds in her effort to both create and maintain a home. She'll tell anyone who will listen, of her pain. Of her desires. She wants a friend. She wants parents. She doesn't want to play pretend with these strange men, she wants a lover who will remain. She wants to be loved and cared for. What she'd give for a home. To be understood. She'll grow wings, if she must, but underneath her breath and then aloud, "Please don't make me leave". She doesn't really want this independence. Not like this. There's a familiarity to this pain.

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