She, who I'd call,
The walking Aphrodite that's never satisfied.
She, who roams the hallway,
looking for her next prey.
She who has the world at her hands,
from the money to the fame,
to the time to do anything.
She, whom is everyone's consent,
for beauty has put her on a high pedestal.
She who feeds off this fame,
and uses it to her greatest desire.
She, who I'd call,
a walking Aphrodite that's never satisfied.
YOU ARE READING
Unsent Letters.
Short StoryA handful of letters that will never quite get to its intended recipient. NO COPYRIGHT INTENDED.
