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Regally high headed,

She won’t look at the floor.

Her coat, an animal, dead

For some years.

Yet she skulks through the door,

Eyes peering as if through some tears.

Don’t worry, not a tear will appear,

For her greatest fear could be

That someone cool might see

Through the carefully practiced aura

Of her dangling necklaces and fedora.

Each item she wears

Was picked out with care

But arranged as if to say

I pulled this from a thrift store tray.

And yet you can always tell,

As she wanders by for a spell,

That no manner of dress

Can ever express

The needs she carries inside

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