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She write odes to herself on her skin,
An array of constellations on her pitted thighs,
Connecting her to the world.
The chained maidens on her wrists
Lonely and waiting to be saved.
A noble man once tried
To defeat the monsters in the day
Her pain and suffering.
But alas she is waiting no longer
For there was nothing to stop the monster
That was ravaging her soul at night.
She carved a raven over her heart
Once white and pure,
She began each day hopeful and joyous
Once a finch with a morning song
But one day she flew too close to the son
And left with a shroud of darkness on her
Worn as a shawl to keep her warm
And her morning song turned to mourning.
She carved a clock on her palm
A pendulum that she kept checking
To see if she was running out of time.
But now she checks her palm
A path worn down her arm from her eyes
And instead of counting up
She counts down
Each tick bringing her closer to the end.
Finally she wrote one too many odes
And finally became an alter herself.
Her sacrifice given in vain as no one will remember
The shade of blue of her eyes
Or the creamy white of her cheek
And will instead remember
The bloody stripes she bore
And she will be forgotten.