The coffee table was broken, smashed into splintering pieces of wood. The
room hazy with smoke, has shattered glass thrown about. Someone was lying down.
There was a stain on the carpet, deep and red. She was
wearing lingerie, red and laced. Lips wet with crimson lipstick, cheeks caked
with red powder. She was young, only 20. Her eyes were grey blue, wide
as if just seeing a murder. The door is wide open. Scratch marks mar the door’s
natural beauty, Oak.
The
sunlight filtered through the thin Japanese curtains. The girl was covered in a
blanket of sunset. She was in love. But now she is quiet, silenced by the same
thing she loved to talk so much about. Her heart so big, so loving, was so easy
to hit. Under her still body, was a puddle in the shape of a heart. Her
greatest attribute was her greatest weakness, and she died the way she wanted
to, smothered in love.
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