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She sashays on the highs of her heels, her clean limbed frame lofty over the insecure heights of blokes. She struts with her shoulders laid back a little, like an absolute quintessential runway model, her ebony skin shimmering under glorious light of the sun.

She is an outlier, she eats with her hands in shindigs, her clavicles casting a charade of stoicism and defiance. Every girl needs a prop to their disposition. Hers are her clavicles, sticking out under her skin treacherously. There’s something about looking menacing and mysterious that makes you get away with anything. She is imposing albeit in subtle dashes. She isn’t the type of woman to subjugate and goey at your feet, she isn’t subservient, this isn’t 1940.

Occasionally, she takes a guy home. If feeling a little risqué, she takes two. She is a femme fatale, high octane with an alluring entrance. Lucky folk follow her with rhetoric leashes on their necks akin to massive dogs to their masters. She doesn’t attach herself to her lovers, rather fleeting one night stands. She’s averse to knowing their names, she doesn’t want to recall and attach names to faces on her reveries. She has a pseudonym; Tamia, sounds like a mermaid that sporadically leaps out of the water for some air.

It’s self-preservative, her choice to shroud her realm in obscurity. She was hurt once, a behemoth of excruciating pain that threatened to implode her core. Her decision to tread wary off impending attachments is hinged on that experience. She commands a broken vessel. A vessel whose fragments wispily hold together. A ship with a precariously held mast.

Suffice to say, she doesn’t let on too much. Painstaking folk see through her façade, they scratch her surface to see the crevices on her heart, her destituteness to foster emotion. A gaping void that dates a couple of years. And, she is averse to men like those, she steers clear of them, she’s been around long enough to discern shallow folk from nuanced ones. The former have penchance for gab and loose small talk. The latter are silent, wallow in serenity and pensiveness.

She smokes, her voice husky, laced with nicotine and assertiveness. Sometimes, inundated she lets away a tear or two, never too much just beads of tears and a cathartic scream under the depths of her bathtub or a fluffy pillow.

Sporadically, the fragments of her vessel hit the sun and for a fleeting moment her core is summoned. The exuberant bubbly femme that just wants to find someone to share meals with at night surfaces. Then just as fast as that ghost came, it goes. Decimating at the drop of a hat.

And the slimy cycle goes on and on.

Image source; Pinterest

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