She sits alone
in her tangled web of madness,
the casual observer
sees no difference.
She is beautiful,
in her eyes a manic intelligence
that reflects back
our uneasiness.
She answers
the voices only she can hear.
A good listener
can hear her pain.
She is dying
from the need to understand reality.
A gentle hand
would keep her with us.
She will kill
because she has been told to,
not you or I
but herself.
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