Camphor’s

Sharp, smooth edges, perfect crystal. And another. And another.
There had to be a flaw somewhere within. Perfection could not exist. The universe does not permit it.
An amethyst there is, for intuitive powers, its smooth water rounded edges clicking on her silver ring. And a quartz glints at the hollow of her throat for clear thinking. Too many aquamarines and jades and agates litter the elegant bronze vessel that contains pot pourri of dried flowers on the table.
Many more stones are all about the tiny room that is her home. One large piece is the colour of the sky at sunset behind a red bloated sun over the ocean, and another the exact shade of the bluebells. A string of prisms dangle from the window, and refract the dyign light of the sun into beautiful prisms that light up the shadowed room.
What stone is that, prominent and eye-catching – the one that looks like it is her lips captured when she was laughing? Or for the blood red one, thirsty for sensuality and ready to be caressed? Would a name for these ever define them satisfactorily? Cooling, calming, soothing, it slides over her heated skin, and she grits her teeth, bitter. Her nose flares slightly as she has the urge to smash something, and hear the satisfying crunch or crash. Would that she could let go and get it out of her system.
No such luck.
The stones still stay in their perfect locations around the little prison, and she silently screams.