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"Don't think I don't know I'm damaged," she says.
"I do." I know she does.
She is perched above my keyboard,
Knees drawn to her chin,
The ragged petals of her dress cracked and parchment-thin.
The hands clasped around her legs are red and rough
And end in talons.
Her eyes are dark and her tongue is forked,
And once wine-stained lips now drip venom.
We are trapped together, she and I,
And her heart holds nothing but contempt for me.
I love her anyway.
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