When I was 16 years old I fell in love with a girl.
I used to think that she was born from the same stuff that makes up the sun.
Her skin glowed from the inside out -- a vibrant bronze that radiated so much life it could only be the result of a swirling mass of light and fire burning within her body.
When I was 16 years old the girl I was in love with was killed by a drunk driver.
I rushed to the scene but her body had already been removed leaving only puddles of blood that reflected the sun so brilliantly they shone.
I was convinced this proved my theories correct -- only a child of the sun could have blood that shimmered like molten gold.
But when I grew old I finally understood the world’s cruel irony.
She was not made from sun matter at all.
Instead, blood the color of golden beer flowed through her veins and bubbled joyously to the surface of her skin like champagne.
She was made beautiful and radiant by the very poison that killed her.
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Tacenda
شِعرtacenda (n.) things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence