She is a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode.
Or so we say.
Rather, she is a blossoming rose with hidden thorns.
But they're on full display, and dripping with color and torn flesh (her own, no one else's).
How about, she burns like fire, an undulating, passionate fire.
So on and on she burns, until she's nothing more than ash in the wind, a memory, neither bitter nor sweet, forgotten.
YOU ARE READING
Her Definition Of "Life"
Short Story"A sane person to an insane society must appear insane." -Kurt Vonnegut "she wasn't living" She truly believed that she had found the meaning of life. Or rather, the meaning of her life. "there never was anything in her" For her, she wanted to spen...
