She loved how men thought with a little persistence
She would just fall right into bed with them.
Her hair, soft brown ringlets falling with airy grace down her back
Was now chopped and dyed and patched over into an ugly chaotic mop
That was more statement then beauty.
Knew how to force intimacy,
Knew how to make others love her;
With her sweet eyes and fragile strength.
Knew how to ask questions, the right questions,
And make quick bonds.
Like fixes. Like drugs.
Like a precarious experimental game.
So delicately she spun out emotional ties
That wove themselves around eachother
And years later men called her still, they could not let go.
But she was done. Done with all that.
Enclosed in houses with looking glass dolls and predictable affection.
She longed for something beyond her power. Something she couldn't predict.
She wanted love that was a surprise with all it's beautiful colors and rough edges.
Its imperfection not whittled down into bubbles.
...
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