Secret Window

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We play a precarious game, dancing around these dangerous things.

My voice calls your name, a covetous pang from my soul it sings.

You a burning flame, I the little moth who singes her wings.

Never one to be tamed, your hands and teeth leave welted stings.

Aching for your claim, a need to be filled pulls at my heartstrings.

Within me you came, instinct demanding of you to plant your offspring.

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I think I knocked my head - do my pupils look okay?

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