You’re my kind of beauty: violence and hunger and hate. Pale skin over sharp bones like a starved and feral beast. Don’t let anyone tell you your rage isn’t glorious. Don’t let anyone tell you cruelty isn’t pretty. Yours is the beauty of the streets, blood on pavement, switchblades and cigarettes. Yours is the beauty of the predator, cold eyes and bared teeth, tense muscle ready to strike. There’s nothing delicate or sympathetic about you; you are a hard, bitter, cutting kind of pretty. Others might fear injury, but I welcome the blood I’ll shed for you.