does her best to hide. She lives in some unthought of corner of the city and wraps herself in sheaths of cloth and plastic and rubber like an 80s punk rock mummy. Should anyone see her pentacle form exposed, the lust would drive them mad. Rape and death would follow like led horses. And like Atlas, the world would not remember her sympathetically.
She’s thought about it before, giving herself up in a masturbatory nova to some ground beef-minded blue-collar. Maybe even a plumber, after all. Those brilliant fifteen seconds. Her people’s death song, choruses chattered in quick succession…
She’d never. She cries before a hop to the store for milk or stamps, afraid of their drillsome gazes. She’s only a body to them. A smear of beauty on the world. And she prays every night that one day her fear of life will overcome her fear of death.
(151 words, ©me)