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Boundaries of the Pupil.

On the brink
she wavers,
swings.

An intense desire to think
there is indeed something to salvage
from humanity.

Fingers stretched, palms
wide and rising,
welcoming…
untouched by the most fluid
form of hope,

she buys her time,
though it continues to test
her patience…

In aggression, this one is strong.

Not wired to give
the vaguest semblance
of a shit. Learned

the motions. Faking
though not quite
making it. Every throat
she could slit…

All the heads
she’d prefer to see
severed, impaled
on the end of a stick…

In her eyes, locked
with mine, I sense the cold
void warmed
just a bit by my reception,
non-judgmental acceptance,

my passionate,
though so naive
struggle
for understanding.

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