I can picture her in leather, head to toe, though I doubt she can, a chameleon that slips n and out of our lives, with each new shell she adopts, providing her with a new, unrecognizable skin, she shimmering in the night before she vanishes again.
I don’t see her as cruel, even though she sometimes seems to
be, finding strength in the perception she can control us, when in the dark of
night or the dawn of day, she has her doubts, as this mistress loses vitality
and must turn back into a little girl, leaving behind on the dance floor
perhaps, one of her spike-healed boots, aching for Prince Charming to find her,
he neve does, but she never stops trying,.
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