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  • It is not his allure,

    Not even his charm or wit.

    It’s not love or memories,

    His smell, his kiss, his perfect fit.



    She is not a doe-eyed innocent, pinned

    By his predatory gaze. Her passivity hides

    A cunning intellect; her naiveté is a slip

    Of silk, concealing contentious intentions.



    She is the only one who can clearly

    See her situation: once she leaves him,

    And the bruises fade, she will be just another

    Lonely girl, invisible to the world.



    He is not vicious by nature,

    Nor prone to salacious behavior. His confessions

    Of love are voracious, and hers veracious.

    Each will consume the other

    In the darkening hue of every new bruise.
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