Love is the extra effort we make in our dealings with those whom we do not like and once you understand that, you understand all. This idea that love overtakes you is nonsense. This is but a polite manifestation of sex. To love another you have to undertake some fragment of their destiny.–Quentin Crisp
I saw her photo and had to write about her. Won’t tell you her name. That’s not part of the deal. I tell you her story. Or, what I think her story is anyway. She’s a beauty. Young and fierce. She’s her own woman. I love that about her. Yet I’ve never heard her voice or held her hand. This woman is a force to be reckoned with. I’m proud of her. I’m honored to write about her.
Fragment?
Never!
Ebony
Rose
Ripped stockings
Her story
Her scars
In ink
Sapphire eyed
Tousled raven hair
Lethal high heels
Inviting lips
Displays wicked grins
Perfect nose
Fuck you attitude
Knows her mind
Her soul
Her father’s daughter
Soft-heart
Straight Edge?
Maybe
Probably not
In her darkness
She sparkles
She glows
She shines
Completely unaware
Of her phenomenal brilliance