Thumbing the archetype,
epileptic finger tingling against triggers.
She says bring me to the trees,
she says teach me to kill.

Nature sounds and violent lights.
Eyes down the sights.
Bambi in the grey
and she prays that she'll slip.
Sunlight slides her grip,
she feels the vibe in fingertips.
It's not within.
Bambi grazes and strays
breathes through safer days.
She cries.
"Father, why?"

I take her small frame into my arms;
tears streaming down her face.
She never had death in her...
her face is too clean.
I hope her face never becomes grim enough
to find the death inside.
The only part of the second stanza that I like is the third and fourth lines, there's just a flash of this rhythm there, maybe it's just me, that is impressive. But the problem is it's ruined on the next line. The rhyming didn't work very well, maybe because it was isolated to only the second stanza, maybe because it was just distracting. But either way, I thought this would've been better without it.

This was alright. The ending was meh. You said she never had death in her but then imply that there's death in her, her face just isn't "grim" enough to see it. Ionno, it's just meh.

You've written much better than this, and I think that's the way to describe this one. I love the word "archetype".

Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black