She was a volcano.
A hot tempered embellishment obscured under a deep dark sheet of obsidian. Her flakes could slice the thickest of sinew and flesh was but a tissue that bled waves of red while lost to her smoldering friction. Compartments of compliments cared not for her ire, only wanting to tease at her desire and say that they had mastered her fruitful valleys, that they had trudged all mightily and claimed the ebb of her peak. She was a volcano, all delicate and flowery, and sick of complementary smokescreen bullshit… so she roared “Fuck it!” and lit the skins up in molten fire.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |