She’s a bit twisted in her thinking

Doubting everything she hears

Everything she sees

Even those things she has touched.

Sins seem to move mountains

Yet all good deeds are ignored.

 

Attached like an umbilical cord

To those who do not represent

Either who she is

Or what she stands for.

Why make important

Something that has never felt important?

 

Sometimes she holds the candle

Allowing the wax

To slowly run down her arm.

Pain is so real

It doesn’t lie.

Then desperately

She wants to blow out the candle.

 

Then she wants to use the candle

To burn down the house

That led to her entrapment

For so long.

 

Your concubine reaches for the tangible

She reaches for other things

Things most men

Don’t freely give away.

 

The only way

She is ever understood

Is one person

In her life

Knows

By the way her hair falls.

 

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