White space spread before me, to-let

It is not as if I have an aversion, no special set

There is just this constant need to check myself

To see if all is well

An insecure feeling, a feeling so impure

A feeling like stint on a white shirt, I’m made demure


I can’t tell, because I have no reason

Just as stint has no reason on clothes, I have no reason to see myself impure.

By Ivy Mensah.

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