It starts with the thrum of blood. Blue black stains on the outer edge of your ears and eyes, fake smile as you’re staring up at him, pinned down on that bed. Cotton sheets because silk was too expensive; you’re just a tad frugal.
He says “Let’s burn them down.” and you stop to think, taste of petrol on your tongue burning sensation between your ribs, contemplating how it would feel to melt and pool as a puddle of wax on the badly carpeted floor.
“Maybe, but it would hurt.” and it’s as simple as that. The fluorescent lights flicker, he sneers, pretty lips painted vulgar, then a laugh and a kiss pressed to the temple, tight and bitter. Love is a myth.
He pushes you away, cheap body exposed and brittle, but you’re stuck in his gravitational pull, chasing him down into the mattress, too hard and too sweet. Pain and glory, swimming through your veins as those lines of heroin written into his arms arch and throb under the throttle and mottle of your fists.
Created: Jul 29, 2010Document Media