Prick my finger on thistle

That speaks sweetly, of royalty

Find the moth-eaten holes in its words

Through the smell of my copper-scented blood


Trap me in amber and hide me away

Keep me in your pocket next to a pungent rosary

Protect me from the rampant darkness

Close it with a button from your dead grandmother's coat


Adorn me in lace from a poisoned bride's gown

String silken cocoons around my frail neck

Call them precious porcelain, saltwater pearls

Am I beautiful yet?


Slice stripes down my thighs

Carve delicate floral patterns into my skin

Imitate the lace tights

Worn by all the pretty girls under their too-short skirts


Give me to the forest you call home

Where the willows whisper words of withered wise men

Don't let me hear their mutterings

Shield my precious ears from the fork-tongued truth


Choke me slowly with incense and pesticides

Kill me like vermin and bury the regret

Mourn not for the pretty thing missing on your shelf,

But the beauty it never believed in



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