It’s a wall built so strong and high around her existence, to protect her from you, and all the hurtful things you did. She keeps home, and away from you; because it’s a battle. When she loses she’s the wounded soldier who fell in the dirty puddle of love’s water. When she wins, she’s the little miss perfect, you say. Her rounds of ammunition were not enough because she wound up battered. The crowds of spectators didn’t matter. The more they cheered on, the more she continued to bleed. In bloody love. If you were graceful, you would surrender. For she is under duress, stress and anything you would think of, other than your so-called, love spell.

 

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