She can't love you. She isn't allowed to.

How many more must that echo to be sealed in stone? Peering into the mirror doesn't answer the said how, but it does surfeit a bitter logic to the why.

Black clothes, bleached hair, and fluent in cussing—the rebellious trinity. Hardly the greatest match your holier-than-thou family will invest in for their sweet, innocent lamb.

Emphasis placed on your father.

That preacher with a specific-Nat-glare un-shy of heating the depths of hell. Boring through her like she was sin personified since she crossed paths with you at age nine. Lezzo lost cause, or whatever bitching his strait-laced sermons incarnates.

Hypocrite, she thinks.

Must be her "stench," too. Cigarette smoke. Whiskey. The tang of gunpowder and iron on the aurora she jerked the trigger to her dad. Dead-set on the pulse.

A foolish mistake of an incident led to a foolish sojourn to the pews. Or, rather, you dragged her there on that tragic date and days after. Find peace, you said gently, repent. So gently it lured her to assuming she's worth a damn of redemption. Like she belongs, even if your dad sees otherwise. Unfortunate for her, that deafens her whole 'must-abstain-perfect-you' mantra.

And the universe fucks with her head further. Because, hah, who else rushes to the porch for downtime? None, but you.

"Tired of the party crowd, huh?" announces her presence, sighing upon flumping her ass on the wooden step. The non-touching distance, the oh god, she looks gorgeous buzz in her head, all active.

But alas, that's her only advancement. Words, not actions, 'cause scooting close when she's this tipsy—nah, the risk is a heap.

Downing her stolen vodka, it's abruptly demotivating in your presence. Yet, your eyes linger on it—intrigued, maybe?

"Want some?" She nudges the bottle against your arm, chuckling at your hell-bent denial. "Relax, I'm fucking with you! Your dad's probably gonna call the cops on me or some shit," she overstates but ain't that the truth?