You’d never say she’s pretty. The edges of her face are hard and pointed. Her eyes are large, but unredeeming; they are being swallowed, sucked back into sockets so dark, no amount of sleep could ever lighten them. Her eyebrows are sharp ridges. A lover might cut his mouth should his lips ever graze the cut of her cheeks, the blade of her nose. Her face is a landscape of bone, her unsmiling mouth soured by conflict, a sub-skin battle. Her bones crave domination. They have drawn the line at erupting through her sallow skin, but they have formed such bold, strong shapes, all other features are eclipsed.
You’d say she has striking bone structure. I wonder if her bones are satisfied with that.