Bit her lip and spilled
Red over white satin pleats
Curving, molding, strangling
And whispering: don't do it
Broke her legs and saw
Perfection in the angles
A bent mind, and 20/20
Who needs to run anyway?
Tore her heart out
Thought it looked nice
Just not in her
Maybe she could give it away.
Her eyes betrayed her so she
Clawed, scratched at the little blue
Deceivers that never forget
Felt them piercing her, needles to see
Ripped the satin and convulsions
Tore trough the blanket of navy
A splintered soul waves back
Maybe she should have run
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