She was the talk of the town,

all she did was out put me down.

Her life evolved around her men,

that all changed when I was ten.


To be born to a whore,

was like a room with no door.

They looked at me as if I was too,

so at twelve I did what I had to do.

She's only been dead for a couple of years,

and I'm being forced to face my fears.


To look in the mirror is like a knife to the heart,

so closely entwind but decades apart.

My innocence gone and she didn't care,

tell me how any of this is fair.

Cut my hair and change the color,

still I look like no other.


No wonder I wanted to be a cutter,

I hate the word but she's my mother.

She's taken so much from me before,

now people around me think I'm a whore.

To be like her would be my death,

but I'll look like her til my last breath.



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