She’s the shadow to their light.
Darkness colored her fingernails.
The polish glossed over the surface
blacking out any possible entrance.

Tinted glasses closed her off from  
the stares of the self-righteous
who saw only bad habits
a dark appearance
and criminal activity
in the way she stepped.

Tremendous rage swelled in her fists
and quelled any rational thought.
She kicked at asphalt, eager for a fight.  
An entire war of battle cries choked her lungs.
As the compulsion to break and be broken
snaked up the narrow passage of her throat.

She shattered her skull
in the hopes of finding clarity.

They call her Violent Violet
for the purple bruises that bloom
dangerously deep and disturbingly dark
along the tops of her knuckles.
To her it’s decorative floral.
In fights she clutches violets
offering their vicious beauty
to any contending adversary.
She’s a volatile force of nature.