lips of amaranth
dripped decadent language
through weakened teeth
she gave all she had
to get there
& she's forgotten where she
left her pieces

fear of fate follows
her around as
vines held tightly to
her wrists,
waiting to prepare it's most
nefarious dish
so that she may be
tempted
to break loose
& put a pen to her
pain
but seldom does the
ink flow
for the fear makes its
bed in the nest
of all she doesn't want
to lose
settled in the leaves
of ivy
a prisoner she remains

but
would you declare
Stockholm Syndrome
if you truly
belong?