HOME | DD

Description
It was in the shrug of her shoulders, piercings flashing like iridescent warning signs to stay away but the almost sad curl of her hands, fingers curling into themselves again and again, that spoke of something with a tinge of desperation.

She had violent eyes and a ruthless smile that stole hearts before their owner was even aware of its absence and maybe it was in the arrogant jut of her chin, the self-satisfied tilt of her lips that spoke of a pampered life, of a hard life. A contradiction. Like how she was skilled in piano but also the art of street fighting. In how she carried a picture of her deceased brother yet curled her lip whenever his name was mentioned. She was so determined to be ferocious, to be fearless, that she wore her anguish like a coat - unimportant to most but, then again, I am not most.

She hid her beauty with a haircut that was as short and jagged as she appeared to be. Pierced her eyebrow several times, had a snake tattoo peeking out coquettishly from behind the delicate curl of her ear. There was a softness to her jaw, a delicacy that spoke of fine breeding of old blood and even older money.

She cared for neither and spilled her blood as frequently as sailors once frequented brothels and perhaps she spilled it for the same reason as well - to fuck her problems away, or, in this case, fuck someone's face up until her problems went away.

Both were very effective methods for merely making the absence of that breast, soft and pliant in the palm of a hand, or the crush of a nose, a touch of resistance then, blood and warm and wet and peaceful that much stronger after all was said and done. A drug addict will long for his next hit, for the next high which, inevitably came at a steeper price as you needed more right now right now right now and she was no better.

People say violence is merely a problem and have overlooked the fact that it is, also, a drug. A stronger narcotic than crack or heroin could ever be. More potent than ecstasy (though it gave you such a high) and baby the way you payed was only in blood. She was more than willing to loosen some of it from her sun-browned skin, ready to tear into a jugular or aorta vein in search of something she said was the truth.

She is a predator, wounded and lonely and dying. Ferocious even in death. Especially because of death.

How I long to remove to bullet that is lodged in her heart.

Description
It was in the shrug of her shoulders, piercings flashing like iridescent warning signs to stay away but the almost sad curl of her hands, fingers curling into themselves again and again, that spoke of something with a tinge of desperation.

She had violent eyes and a ruthless smile that stole hearts before their owner was even aware of its absence and maybe it was in the arrogant jut of her chin, the self-satisfied tilt of her lips that spoke of a pampered life, of a hard life. A contradiction. Like how she was skilled in piano but also the art of street fighting. In how she carried a picture of her deceased brother yet curled her lip whenever his name was mentioned. She was so determined to be ferocious, to be fearless, that she wore her anguish like a coat - unimportant to most but, then again, I am not most.

She hid her beauty with a haircut that was as short and jagged as she appeared to be. Pierced her eyebrow several times, had a snake tattoo peeking out coquettishly from behind the delicate curl of her ear. There was a softness to her jaw, a delicacy that spoke of fine breeding of old blood and even older money.

She cared for neither and spilled her blood as frequently as sailors once frequented brothels and perhaps she spilled it for the same reason as well - to fuck her problems away, or, in this case, fuck someone's face up until her problems went away.

Both were very effective methods for merely making the absence of that breast, soft and pliant in the palm of a hand, or the crush of a nose, a touch of resistance then, blood and warm and wet and peaceful that much stronger after all was said and done. A drug addict will long for his next hit, for the next high which, inevitably came at a steeper price as you needed more right now right now right now and she was no better.

People say violence is merely a problem and have overlooked the fact that it is, also, a drug. A stronger narcotic than crack or heroin could ever be. More potent than ecstasy (though it gave you such a high) and baby the way you payed was only in blood. She was more than willing to loosen some of it from her sun-browned skin, ready to tear into a jugular or aorta vein in search of something she said was the truth.

She is a predator, wounded and lonely and dying. Ferocious even in death. Especially because of death.

How I long to remove to bullet that is lodged in her heart.