She had always loved the feeling of blood on my face, even when it wasn't mine. She was the night sky, a vast amount of darkness with holes all over that couldn't be stitched together. That's why I hid her under the bed so no one would ever find her, because if they ever did I would have to put them to sleep too. Her eyes were equanimity, I had to keep them in a jar beside me every night. They were the colour of an unencumbered rose , lost due to perfidiousness. The battle of the sun and moon on her lips; the scars were always a sign of beauty. They were sesquipedalians who spoke with silence. She was osculator, yet murdered herself. Maybe because she was alone...........Maybe it was her eyes..........her eyes were soulless, maybe because
