There is always another Her. So many of them, crawling from the light fixtures, the ceilings, your gym bag, taking you away and turning you into a monster I do not recognize. The Hers bring you to their thorny worlds, dragging you into their wounded lives. Trying to fix them, to shear them and release the roses beneath, you become trapped. Any move makes you bleed.
I try and clear you out, bring you back to the sunlight. I get pricked, and my blood trickles down onto your face. You get mad at me for blurring your vision of the perfect woman you have created in your mind.
My skin scrapes on the way back out.
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