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Something made her this way.
She empties tea bags
and stitches them back together.
Writes on light bulbs
and stares at the sun.
Drinks alone.
People take up space,
eat her air with their
raw red gaping maws.
She can’t move through this
dense net of conscious bodies,
each voice a vicious snare
to skin that tears like paper.
She’s origami.
Flatten her out and fold her
to accommodate your dimensions.
She won’t mind, particularly.
Just be careful you don’t
let her near a match.
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