Breaking Whitewashed Walls
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They say I didn't talk till I turned four. But I remember every word from
the days before. Caterpillar sprinklers, brothers toys on the floor. A little voice
just quiet 'cause the house felt sore. Mama slept through weekends,
curtains always closed. I learned young what a wounded spirit shows. Took pictures for
the world just to strike a pose. But we both knew that ain't
how our story goes. Yeah, families look perfect when the camera
shines. But the truth don't lie between the lines. I grew up
in a house of whitewashed walls. Pretty on the outside, hollow in the
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