She crawls on glass ceilings,
balances on paper ropes,
and allows the barbed wire to gauge her throat
her voice is lost in the dripping carmine
poetry brimming on cracked lips
can't be heard over blood-red creaks
like hollowed stairways at three a.m.
as youthful souls tiptoe over burning coals
to not wake the sleeping souls of
their silent opressers
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