when he shoved his tongue

down her throat

she fooled herself

into thinking he tasted like

pomegranate

instead of

sweat and force

she wondered if

it was his hands

choking her

or his black as coal eyes

tracing along her

every moment

yet never fully meeting

her gaze

crunch

the impact

of his knuckles

against her rosy cheeks

made her flinch back

but she forced herself

to think that he turned her into art

purples, and reds, and yellows

stroking her cheekbones

the embodiment of a sunset

her tears

were captured in her

eyelashes like a net

reflecting her lies

Oh my God. Look she's typing. I wonder what she is writing. Do you think it is one of her stories? I want to read it. Do you think she would let me? Oh. She just got an email. I wish I could email her. Maybe if I sneak over I can get her email address. Do you think that'd be annoying? I don't want to be annoying. But a quick peek shouldn't hurt, right?