She

She is 22. She is tall and slim with a short blonde bob. She is a woman. She has dimples on her inner thighs and bites hard on her lovers lip.

She does not want to sleep with you without question because the hem of her skirt skims her arse. Nor is that an invitation to touch her.

She will not hang on the syllables that slip off your tongue so as not to damage your ego. She will not be afraid to challenge or be heard, she will demand that her light is acknowledged.

Her body is not an object for you to handle or discuss. She is defined by so much more. She is courageous, she is smart, she is challenging. She is beautiful and she will not minimise her ambition for anyone.

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She will challenge and speak out against what she believes to be true and right. But deep within her lies a hurt and anger, an inability to see herself as accepted or acceptable. Conflict has become a permanent fixture in her being that is masked with the confidence that slips off her skin.

Anger seeps into all parts of her life like a dank dark rot. She can keep the rot at bay but a part of her will always be in decay.

That part of her that feels unwelcome is sometimes suppressed but it also feeds her. It forces her to raise her voice to deal with the decay – the moss it creates is a symptom of society.

Only by bringing it into the light will we see, that the anger has a beautiful power.