#30

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she is nothing
but broken
shards,scattered
on the floor of
her perfectly
tidy bedroom.
fragile yet very
dangerous , for
as broken as
she is , she
could
pierce anyone's
skin in the blink
of an eye.
so she surrounds
her frangible being
with thick walls,
and engulfs
herself in the dusty
scent of books,
tucking her heart
between their
filled pages , as
she allows her
lips to sip each
line , each word,
and each letter
forcing the lump
in the back of

her throat down.

and every night,
under the intense
gaze of the pale
moon, she lifts
her head to the
skies and pleads
that by some
miracle, her dry
ink will turn into
poetry that will
embrace her
ever so tenderly ,
just like how a
mother holds her
sleeping child .

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