I really don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this.

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Oh my darling,
oh my beautiful.
Let me take you away,
oh, to where the pretty things lay.
To where the dead things play.
To a garden in the sky,
to where the dead things cry,
where the pretty things die.

Oh,
so faraway,
oh up so high.

Oh,
feel the pulse against your fingertips.
Squeeeeeze
your hands 'round the pretty thing,
tight.
Oh, so beautiful.
Oh, so dead.

Oh my beautiful,
dig a little grave
where the pretty thing shall lay.
Oh my darling,
please don't cry.
Here is a new pretty thing,
with which you can play.
Oh.

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Notes: I guess I kind of pictured a young girl killing something beautiful, perhaps within herself. And the narrator of the poem just getting her a "replacement". *shrug*