She’s all rebel with no heart.
Her arm
Full of wars and scars.
Memories in tattoos
She speaks in violence
Her tears are fists and screams
Her words
Catastrophic,
--graffiti’d with mute charm
is sweet nectar to fools in blind folds.
In the mirror
She sees a flower
delicate
illuminating all kinds of colors,
even blues.
C. L. Jones
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