Poetry….true story like all of my poetry

My little baby doll
Black in color,
Bought at a flea market 
For less than a dollar.
“Why does a white girl want a black babydoll,”
They asked,
They teased.
What did her color matter?
It did not to me.
I took her home and washed and dressed her,
In the prettiest doll clothes I had.
Wrapped her in a pink blanket
And lay her on my bed.
I pretended she was my baby
I loved her that much,
Pretended I was giving mother’s love.
But the taunting continued,
It never stopped,
They were ashamed I loved
This babydoll.
They were relentless,
And soon I did tire,
Walked out in the yard,
And threw her in the fire.
I gave up on her,
Like they gave up on me,
As a tear rolled down my chin.
I knew in their persecution,
They would always win.
I gave up on her,
Like I gave up on myself.
The pain
Of that babydoll, 
My favorite babydoll,
Can still be felt.

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