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Malinche
She was a rose
Incomprehensible layers
Of trauma and tenacity
She was plucked away
From her roots
And passed from person
To person
As an object
Handed as a gift
In a stained glass vase
And scuffled to
Scrape up her survival
By becoming an opening
Between two worlds
Her survival was a betrayal
Her hands were tightly tied
Into a story of romance
Instead of victimhood
Named lady
By those who used her
Called traitor
By those who sold her
A girl
Torn apart into a woman
Copyright ©
Emily Busemeyer
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