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Riding Crop

I saw a boy weeping inconsolably in a playground,

Over a scrape, bruise, or stolen toy, no

Trivial matters for him.

There, there. Don’t cry. Everything will be alright

His mother comforted.

No need to lie to the boy.

“The garden needs weeding,”

My mother’s final words,

Eyes filled with such terror.

I still have years before I share her fate,

But I am starting to feel the riding crop.


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