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listen, if you like
to the footsteps of a girl late at night
the sharp hiss of her breath
as her thoughts spiral inward
the familiar, damning scent of ivy
twining up into her nostrils
and out again through her mouth

she is the child of ritual
she will not step on sidewalk lines
she lays her candy out in rows
before chewing it, piece by piece
she will not cross her own barriers
long set in place, in strands of
glittering metal around her thoughts

an old poem, slightly renewed