Disclaimer: I do not own anything nor anyone.


She had cut her hair.

Not like there was much to cut.

I hated her, hated her so much.

In fact, I still hate her.

She's got the attitude, she's got the structure. How cool is she? How cool can she get? Everyone leers at her. She passes by them in the hallways. They look, they want her.

She doesn't need to show off her body. Her face is enough.

She walks the walk; she talks the talk. Well, at least when anyone lets her.

She leans one way; they follow.

Her hair is that dark purple. Her skin is that clean ivory shade. Her lips are full, her eyes are deep.

Her shoulders are hunched, her spine curved. Her face is impish now with that haircut.

She looks like Rosemary's child.

Her eyes are indigo. That smile; disgustingly erotic.

They question her heritage. She used to wear a chakra. She used to wear a bindi.

Hindu? Burmese? French? Full-blooded American?

Does she have a brother? Is he the bastard child?

Does she have a mother? Is she a whore?

Does she have a father? Is he still there?

Her life is good.

Not great.

Just good.

She's got the piercings. She's got the tattoos.

She's got the lovers.

The list provided is long.

Richard Grayson. Wealthy. Admired.

Garfield Logan. Sluggish. Admired.

Mal Hitchior. Elegant. Admired.

Rorek Lain. Chic. Admired.

Roy Harper. Womanizer. Admired.

Garth Reilly. Suave. Admired.

Peter X Cambridge. Winner. Loved.


She has not too much height. She has not too little.

She smokes the cigarettes. She coughs up blood after school.

Her style is art house. Her style is way to cool for you.

She listens to art. She makes love to it too.

She loves the boys. She loves the girls.

I wish she would love me too.

Her sexuality is questionable. The Adam's apple or the bosom?

She chooses them both.

She's kissed the bosoms multiple times. They've kissed her back to.

She bleeds when they leave.

Her fingers are narrow and long.

She wishes her name was Amélie.

Luxury calls her.

She laughs in her face.

Opulence touched her.

She killed him.

The police could not drag her away.

She's a stunner. She's hot.

She covers up her legs.

Lust tears the cloth away.

She shuts her legs.

Aphrodisia pulls them apart.

She's not a harlot.

They're just trying to make her.

She refuses.

Everything on her figure is always under wraps.

Yet they still try to get inside.

They still try to see.

I can still see that haircut.

So short; so edgy.

The girls glare at her.

Of course they disagree.

Behind her back, they try to pull their own long hair out.

They say they're going to show her, that bitch.

They don't.

They say she's copying some Goth-y trend…

She only needed a haircut.

The nape of her neck needed some air.

The boys look at her. Hating her. Hating him.

The girls look at her. Hating her. Hating her too. (1)

The bosom and the Adam's apple stare.

They hate each other.

She talks about politics.

She talks about maths.

She talks about economy.

She talks about her dad.

She talks about talking to herself.

She talks about crying in the back seat.

She talks about being there alone.

She talks about raping herself.

She touches the broken collar bone.

She touches the filth.

She touches herself.

I think she's all alone.

She's stuck in two sexes.

She can't choose.

She wants to smoke again.

Her conscience slaps her.

Better to have lung cancer?

She wishes to trade places with a cancer patient.

She deserves the feeling.

I know she had her hair cut.

Trimmed to the bone.

The degenerates want it.

She wished she had it too.



Ouch. I can already feel the whips of anger and frustration and ANNOYANCE. How long has it been? I dunno, but long enough. I pity myself. I feel like I murdered someone. I feel so guilty.

I'm so sorry.

So, so, sorry.

And to anyone out there who had the heart to read this, I APOLOGIZE. I HAVE SINNED IN THE WORLD OF MERCHANDISING AND LITERATURE. Honestly I do have an excuse of sorts. My computer was taken over by some slob spyware software from Argentina. Yeah, I read the reports. Anyways, twice I had to erase everything on my computer because it was my only option. It was a serious situation. My email account is loaded with malicious notes that I can't even read because of some other technical problem. I'll figure it out sooner or later so sorry to anyone (that means you Poison's Ivy and Tuli-Susi) expecting a reply for a PM or review or something.

I feel ashamed. I'm so sorry. I promise, I swear, I'm indebted to working on the chapters I owe you that were written twice and unfortunately have been deleted and drowned in the cyber sewers.

That's why I promise I'll do my best with all those stories I've been writing. I f you want a sneak preview, please PM me or say it in a review.

Oh, and the 'story' which is a one-shot, is narrated by someone that deserves to be guessed by you guys. This is intended to be implying that Raven is bi-sexual, and one of her lovers is Red X or Peter Cambridge hence the 'winner'.

(1)Hating her. Hating her too. – This is just saying that the girls hate her and hate her female lover too.

So what did you think? Remember one-shot. No story. No continuance.

Reviews are appreciated. They are a symbol of forgiveness. FORGIVE ME! I AM HORRIBLE!

-Bye. Sorry.