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Murder She Wrote.

She is a writer and she is a warrior. Carrying a machete full of metaphors and shield of similes. With her pen, she can blow minds and slash tongues. Make men rub their chin, make women clutch their heart, and make black hearts bleed Blood – black and blue, spilling my guts and my heart out to you. Staining coke white lines darker than doubts. With her fingers on the keys, she can start fires or soothe sleeps. In your bones, rubbing salt in wounds you thought healed long ago And kiss cuts you thought would never feel good again. She will make you feel things. Tickle your brain and whisper all the words you never knew you wanted to hear. Thoughts that can’t escape you. No rebuttal. With a flick of the wrist and lick of the lips, she will suck the words out of you. Do not start a war with a writer, because she will never let you forget The electricity of your first kiss, or the agony of your last heartache. Periods and apostrophes razor sharp. She spits fire. Wordplay daggers penetrating your limbic system YOU WILL BEG FOR THE STICKS AND THE STONES. Even the Devil doesn’t want to dance with her. And when all is said and done, She will write your ending, so that you could relive it over. And over. Again.

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