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Writer's pictureDanielle Pryor

The Young Woman with Braids



She has a gift like no one I’ve met before-

She stares at me through a picture frame.

Her eyes look into mine, I cannot break

Her gaze, no matter what I try.

They see right passed the disarray of color blocks

And splotchy grey.

She looks into my brain- lingering for a moment

Or two- she finds nothing of interest-

She’s more entertained by devouring my soul;

consuming my heart

and bleeding it dry.

Her eyes then leave my brain

And travel down my spine.

They hop on every

Vertebrate

Enjoying the steep decline.

The eyes finally reach their destination,

One after another they climb down,

Trampling on my arteries, kicking each one they’ve found.

They explore for a while

And then her shameless stare runs

Back from where it came- shrinks

Back into her skull again

And looks at me with fear at what it’s seen.

She knows she should not peruse the souls

Of those she cannot see- and so

Her body fades again

And her head floats into oblivion.

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