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.
What if I told you I was living a lie and tying myself up in metaphorical knots. Fake smiles, sore heart and the inability to feel anything. Hopeless and hopeful, brown eyes turned blue from too many nights crying over spilt milk, bloody hands and inspiration. Would I be your kind of beautiful?
Boredom, blue, black and with the notion of curves where there aren’t any. She’s hiding under fabric, bedsheets, camisoles, three piece business suits when she’s reclining in the boardroom, throwing ideas (amongst other things) onto the table with the hopes that somebody will pick one up, cheap as a hooker.
Desperation in her blood, falsity swimming through her veins and the vague threat of attack written so very clearly on her frontal lobe. Kisses, bites, snares and snarls. Beauty wrapped up like a court case, tied around the desk where she sorts all of her papers.
Impersonal and harsh (When business becomes pleasure) clutching to a desk and feeling, overwhelming waves pushing and pulling to the point of objection, overruled and pleading.
Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
