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Rapunzel (a poem)

     My life unfolds in a small room: 1 desk and chair by the door 1 window 1 cot-like bed 1 bookshelf 1 fan 1 closet This room is my prison. It makes me  a lethargic  caged  animal,  like the lion at the zoo who just sleeps  stretched out in the sun. It stifles  my desire to scream  and knock down  one of the walls.  It turns my rage to despondent tears. It turns my snark  to soft meekness  that wraps itself in sleep for self-preservation till soon I stop using all my room’s small space and just curl up on my bed. And soon this cell becomes a haven  against the scary sprawling world too big for a tired mind like mine  to navigate. It gives me rest when I am weary. It hides my tears from prying eyes. It lets me think my thoughts uninterrupted. I’m the queen  of this place.  It’s mine to use  as I see fit. Nothing can be lost, and I cannot be lost in space so small. In my prison, I am free. But I know it’s not real freedom. It’s a mockery of
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