Hardest tales to be believed would sell a course of brutal glee; taught of a girl quite down to fuck—up for a fight—who’d test her luck. Those who saw had thought this false, some puffed out chest, her fury’s moss. This coating worn of fearless gait would be perceived as just some state. Beyond she was—those petty games—the many out there playing lame. The ruthlessness within her art would now be wielded by her heart.
