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English Rose
She kissed me and called me her English rose, like that luscious lullaby, that we heard on the shop radio, as we held hands in the freezer section. I was frozen by my indecision. Did I tell her about how complex my identity was, or let her rest, with her cute nickname for the girl…
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The English Daughter Of An Immigrant
There is a river of ruby running up my arms and down my legs, and in my chest, a vault of vermillion, a million shades soar all through my body, and while my loyalties are split, I still gave my heart to this island, in part, an honest, open heart, split across the shining waves…
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Here Lies That Sad Girl From The Internet
Where will the statue of me reside? When I am a pile of bones in the ground, rarely recalled by my son, who has his own life to lead, and manages to make it back on February 1st, with roses and poppies to place on a headstone, where I am identified as a wife and…