Within the struggle, the ferocity, and the desperation of a catfight, there lies only beauty amongst the ugly deeds done.
There being no time to examine a rival’s stretchmarks or chastise the rolls that can be seen in her flesh.
For they, like their enemy, are woman. Pure and uncovered. Roaring and at war. Unchained and unrestrained. Their motives their own. Their worries about perfection swept away by the maelstrom of emotion that in such a battle torments and tantalizes their soul.
End though such an escape will, from the perfection that society dares to demand oh so cruelly. The memory of it.
The freedom of it.
The power of it.
Will always call. From memory, with melancholy.
Their once-hated rival: their lost blessing.