Her name is Kimmi.
Her skin is fair against the few strands left of what she calls hair. She looks so out of place with that cherry-red hair hanging in her face, but I still love her—which is very much odd, considering the names her peers call her, like those belonging to a female dog.
I disregard all that to only find a child, deep down inside, who did nothing but shit and cry. Nonetheless, I brush it aside and do my best to ignore the name calling and put a relationship to the test.
It starts out pleasant, but it slowly spirals down when she sends me—and several other boys—pictures that belong to a site for a collection of sex toys.
She plays the victim, mopes around, and wishes she were six feet underground.
Naturally, I help her as much as I can, but there isn't a lot to do when I wanted her to live, and she favored a life full of the blues. She is beautiful in each and every way, until that very day she rubs me the wrong way.
I don't recall exactly what had happened, except there had been some fighting, some smacking, and a little bit of biting.
Her slaps sting me, right on the cheek, and I smack here right back, staining the flesh with hues of unique.
She falls to the ground, and I want to kick her in the face, to shove her further down to her rightful place—except she starts to cry, and that makes me laugh at how pathetic she is, and how she probably wants to die.
The blood on her face, on her nose, matches the color of her hair, and it sticks to the skin that is just so fair.
The next day at school, she wears bandages and scrapes, and thinks she is cool.
We break up, needless to say, but she still loves me—still to this very day. I think it's sad, but I keep quiet. I know she'll only cause an unbearable riot.
So, the days fly by, and finally on her birthday, she tells me she desperately wants to die.
I am a monster for wishing her good luck. I hardly feel bad, because her pointed nose and open face continues to make me mad.
Strangely, I am happy. Unfortunately, the following day, I hear something that makes all my words fly away.
She had killed herself—stepped off that chair—and I begin to imagine how blue would go with her hair. Blue against red wouldn't match, but she isn't my problem now. I wonder if Satan will think she's a catch.
They say she had been found in a little black dress. "That whore," many say, but I secretly wish she would enjoy her final rest.
I sit down one night and begin to daydream about the moon's light. However, my mind goes back to that dark dress, so tight.
Not caring any longer, I don't cry, although I did contemplate on how that is such a beautiful way to die.
Soon, my fingers find their way to my laptop's keyboard, and I slowly lay them down to start writing about the bitch in that black gown.
I have no idea how to start the story concerning the girl that had meant so much to me, so I decide to start with—
"Her name is Kimmi."