Mystique

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She held him with a firm grip --
but much of the time that was as impossible as lacing her fingers through smoke.
Her begging as loud as flames screaming through windows of burning houses --
She was no rose to match the thorn that was him --
and that was all he could think as he stepped in deeper --
knowing she couldn't swim --
a pool of her own blood.
Had he taken the time he would have seen she was a shape-shifter --
before he became a splinter.

LJ
"soul spilling"

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