Her prose is bruised purple. With each passing day, the silence tightens around her throat, coaxing out a plea for forgiveness, for a withdrawal of bitter sentiments. But she is unable to let out a whisper. Her mouth contorts as she hangs her head defeated. And so she redirects this hostile asphyxiation to her writing. Lashing sentences out. Pummeling syllables down. Wildly striking every thought away. She writes with such ferocity that her prose is bent into poetry. Behind the facade of her naivety lies a derelict spirit that peers through broken lenses. She does not wish to bring the source of her corruption to light; instead, she shelters it in her vulture nest of a heart, smothering the scent of decay with childhood sweets and cheery smiles. She has glorified her corruption, championing it as the model by which she lives.