The Loops

She's clutching her necklace, As if the pendant were made from her mother's hand. She's scratching her own neck, As if no one had noticed her trembling glance. She makes her way through the crowd, Dancing her feet upon the ground, Her shallow breath's set trails of dominos, Falling into the rhythm of the dripping sound. She hates crowded places, But not as much as the paces inside her head. She hates people blabbering, But not as much as the echoing void screeching till she's mad. She's a natural communicator, People find love within her. She's a gifted liar, People find her a wonder. But she's a greedy eater, a soul-sucker, Nothing more than a mental terrorist, Disguised as the lovely florist, Guarding away the stinking putrid. She seeks power through the reflection of strangers' glimpses, While tearing herself from her own flesh. She did this to herself. She says she's running out of time, Neglecting the child sobbing, The apple's still fresh. She did this to herself.