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Lost in the dark, tangled in silken threads,
the truth as undesirable as her unmade beds.
Trapped in a web of lies and deceit,
afraid to look up from her own two feet.
What is love, if not diamonds and pearls,
an air-brushed image for innocent girls?
Perhaps instead a worn out blanky,
stinking, ripped and rather manky,
chewed and flea-ridden but comfortable still,
a security wrap from an unknown ill.
Better the devil we know and love,
than to expose our hand and unfit the glove.
Not for her the postcard greetings
but a face black and blue from countless beatings.
Pity the girl who knew no more
than to let her pimp boyfriend turn her into a whore.