She's the one
who wears the skin of a pretty psycho
and repeats to herself:
"We will be like rabid things
walking circles in the middle of the street."
I'm watching her cautiously
wondering if she is even aware
of the razor blade she grips
in the palm of her hand.
I'm afraid to comfort her
because she trembles
like something ready to explode.
And the foggy window that is her skin
would shatter into a thousand jagged pieces
and I'd see her every tragedy reflected from each
before they embedded themselves in my skin.
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