Black walks with a grace so haunting but everyone wants to wear her. She has a majestic aura that everyone craves. I’m afraid of her but she is just like me; tall, dark, a mystery you can’t solve on your own. I can always sense when Black is around. Her scent, her touch, her voice is like no other. Black was the child your parents always warned you about, except we are all willing to jump off a building with her.

Black has a touch that sends electrifying sensations down your already shook spine. Her hands are rough but we still hold them, cherish them. Her slap hurts like hell but we don’t cringe, she’s that powerful. Black knows all of our secrets; she taunts us with her forbidden knowledge. We hate Black and her mysterious ways and her harmful touch, but we can’t get rid of her. We beg for her existence.

Black smells like flowers, roses, to be exact. Black smells like freshly baked lemon cake our grandmothers surprised us with. She is a demon with the sweetest smell. Black seduces us with her tempting scent and her wicked smile, our men fall to their knees for her.
Her voice can be thrilling and magical but deadly and frightening. She serenades us in the middle of the night with her lovely, legato voice. We yearn for her words to hit our ears like rain hits a window. She can sing the song of love; she can sing the song of sorrow. The tone of her voice changes dramatically every day.

Black is me, Black is us. She surrounds us no matter where we are, who we’re with. She can summon the good in us, but she enjoys bringing out the evil in us as well. Black will always be my other half, a blood-sister, someone I can trust and fear at the same time