She has learned to live around her empty space inside, weaving ivy and dandelion chains into ornamental loveliness to place across its threshold. Woe to the strangers who mistake this ruse for terra firma and tumble like watch-laden rabbits into her abyss.
Uncomfortable with closeness, pathologically private, she will bounce the waylaid travelers back to daylight. They will be forever changed. They will form support groups, talk among themselves, seek illusion of recovery.
They will never understand her limitless lack – her funked-out feeling of disconnect -- in light of early rescue from the trash heap; in spite of being embraced by those who cared for her, long after she had gifted them with reasons to stop caring.
Betrayal is the style she has perfected over time. They may love her if they dare, but she will leave them, one by one, and she will leave them piquant poesy nearly never.
Spiracle