Her name was Kali.

She was 5. She had needles sewed in the black of her eyes, and thick ringlets falling into the never ending curve of her shoulders, encasing her face in guiltless shadows.

Kali was 10. Her breath was perpetually stained with last words struggling to squeeze past wrongly wringed innocent necks, and her veins sunk deep into the folds of her ancient skin reeking with glints of wisdom reflecting off mirrors that could never capture her essence.

Kali was 15. Her tongue struck like a cobra consumed my heady lust, dripping into beads of alcohol and sweat clinging to naked bodies, and her lips were rusty razors that gleamed sharp on liquid ruby that cascaded down bruises on marred skin.

Kali was 20. Her red nails were incisors digging into hard backs that were adorned with flushing and panting plastic green, and her touch was the last of flickering light departing from a soul.


Kali was ageless in her true form, tongue and tendrils like claws choking empty air, flanked by her own power on all sides.