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There is a reason why the ricochet of gunfire will no longer wake me and the sound of the siren causes no startle. My street has a red light reputation.

There is a reason that there are so many hospitals near the ghetto and the cops don’t get out of their cars.
I live in a bad place the city is trying to make pretty.

There is a reason when the lights flash through my forth floor window my first thought is if my babies. My fear teaches me how to be vulnerable.

There is a reason I moved here. When I close my eyes, the tall trunks of gray and glass are really just the trees wearing camouflage trying to survive one more night like me.

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