Soft and red
She tilts her head
a velvet tear
against the satin
of night
she opens herself
to the moon's milky light.

Her thorns are
for sorrow
grown in through
her youth
like a flower
inside her
she's writhering
and bleeding
too

She yearns to see truth
to take back her youth
to a writhering rose,
time is still too late

So she writhers in moonlight.

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