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Jessica Winter once burst into flames,
Leaving me with a terrible shock,
And Amie and I played a distasteful game
Until we met a man with the pox.

My lips met the lips of a boy I adore
And his hand met the curve of my waist,
But he pushed me away with a shake of his head;
I awakened with only a taste.
She spoke to his soul in a way that he simply
couldn't describe.

She left things within him,
like-glances-and
s l o w   b r e a t h s ,

And in his fast-filling mind,
she painted
brilliant strokes.

He framed them with his affections and listened
as they seemed to sing.

Their frequencies bounced about his
c a v e r n o u s   s h e l l
until they filled him up

And he could only look up,
taken
by his overwhelming gratitude
at the creator's hand.
She's slowly come to understand
She's not the type of girl he needs;
The type of girl who doesn't heal--
The type of girl who bleeds and bleeds.

The type of girl 'can't feed a man--
The type of girl who waters weeds.
The type of girl who tries to sow
Her garden with ill-gotten seeds.

She understands just thorns will grow,
But prunes each futile plant she sees.
He tells her that he's off to wed
A woman 'can fulfill his needs.

And now she is a barren girl,
The type of girl who's on her knees.
The type of girl who doesn't heal--
The type of girl who bleeds and bleeds.

— The End —