Stockholm Syndrome

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How appetizing I must’ve seemed.
Ripe with life when I smiled and dreamed.
She plucked me from my garden patch
When the season called for a worthy catch

A hunger cares not for what it craves
It neither thinks nor hardly saves
A hunger waits with quiet might 
Humored only upon sight’s delight

But how addicting her curation was.
For my queen I was happy to buzz.
With her needle’s thread she sewed us together
A stitch i thought would last forever.

Yet spinsters weave from wasted spindles
A thread that hurts and never dwindles.
Trapped in place by this newly stitched hem,
She ate my heart, then tied a knot from its cherry stem.

She showed me exactly how it’s done
Yet still I can’t do it on my own.
Through her movements I learned the game
But I still can’t say its entire name.

Weaving nets was something I could never master
But if I could, I’d also keep doing it faster

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