perfumed kill

she held a 9mm glock in her hands as they talked about rape. the gun was light and felt like the hard crunch of a pulverized anthropod's shell. it smelt surprisingly like melodic perfume, sweet but with a gentle hint of a malodorous overture. it was ironic that she masturbated the handle while he refuted the fact that a woman could be raped by her lover.

"all you have to say is no. without an explicit no, it is not rape."

how dictionary perfect.

what is it about a woman's psychology that allows her to convince herself that it is love? she slumbers innocently only to be woken by her boyfriend having his way with her. she is frightened but casts aside her fears, chiding herself for being so frigid and prude. the boyfriend tells her to resist so that he can fulfill his rape fantasy. it can only be love.

how long before she recognizes a likeness of herself in the domestic violence posters glaring at her in the subway during her commutes? the dorian grays of her own diary.

what is it about a woman's psychology that permits men to rape her daily with their eyes? she is pitted with anxiety everytime she passes a crowd of men but says nothing while their looks corrode and delinquent comments ravage her beauty. she is no longer prettily innocent.

when will she stop making excuses for a boss that meant no disrespect with that accidental brush, lingering look, or miscalculated compliment? the boss fantasizes about her when he makes love to his wife.

what is it about society that drives a woman's psychology to release the trigger, allowing for the bullet to ejaculate all so mightily? she finally learns to say no. she will no longer be raped.