Ginger are her hips, sweet with a kiss, she stands nude, from head to toe.

Her breasts round and cuped to her chest, her figure carved as if by a knife
when a craftsmen carves a puppet, of new or of his own creation, her lips
still wet, the moisture she still has from the stimulation she just recieved
to her mouth, her hair brushed carefully and placed to her back, the length
almost up to her pretty little crack, us for the rest of her hair running
through like a little bush, it went slowly up revealing the pink pearl,
underneath all that hair with the pinkness sealed, what a man such a fool to
turn away such a tool, epervecent, as water slowly passing an almost emty
lake, her face yet so sad, she didn't look mad.

Depressed her face with a lump and a scar, her dress lay torn in the corner,
she cowers on the cold wet floor, once a part of nature, she now lay stripped
of all worth, her body in pain, once a queen now a victim, she shivers,
Bruise.