Slave

I am his
He whips me no more
But the lashes are etched under barely healed scars
I doubt he knows I still call him “Master”
I cannot seek solace elsewhere,  because I am not my own to give away
And I’m good at being seen, not heard
Emancipation belongs to Maya Angelou and Alice Walker
For even if I give myself permission to live,  to survive
The imprint of the shackles remind me that I am his

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