Southern Flower

She cried endlessly to the rain; her hair slicked down her neck as tiny streams of rainwater traced her beautiful figure all the way down to the puddles at her knees. Her shoulders heaved with the terrible burden that tore at her heart. She let out yet another sob as liquid missiles impaled her beautiful face. She saw him.

He’d seen her flinch, and had to have known the atrocities that she was thinking.

Her flower-printed dress clung to her skin, offering no more privacy than what she figured. She felt completely naked.

He understood.

He removed his torn, rain-soaked clothes, exposing himself completely to her. She did not feel as alone. He reached down, beaconing her with his black hand.

She grabbed it. But instead, pulled him down to her. He tore off her dress and whispered her beautiful name, “Coraline…”

That night, she found love in the fields of her father’s farm. But she knew the truth. She was her daddy’s daughter. Racist against her will.

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