Jazzmin Flush

   
   "Jazzmin Flush"
   
   Asexual.  Not a naughty word--in fact, beautacious, but it gets you labelled a weirdo.  Jazzmin Flush didn't care; that would womb despair.  Got her cherry thieved away by a brute at fourteen--some desperate dude thought he'd show her his lengthy strength.  Him stinking of pride and dominance, like he owned her, and he did, for one defenseless minute.
   Then came the abortion.  She couldn't live knowing his beast was blossoming in her belly.  Anxiety is not a strong enough word.  Next, the pernicious purgatory of guilt.  Self hate.  A lost sister.  An aspect of herself having had the wicked synergy of a violating seaman.
   Jazzmin Flush was twenty-two now.  Healed.  Celibate.  Residing in the Angelic City of California during a future nowadays.  Delivering her poetic pamphlets to the mentally homeless while making a taco her and there to afford a basement filled with gregarious mice.  And she had no friends.  Just looks.  Gawks.  Guys thinking her lesbianiac cause she wasn't spreading like crunchy peanut butter.      But they loved her--with hate.  Her dirty blonde mane and chocolate brown eyes highlighting curves gone golden.