The chafed skins of the ceiling turned into pirouettes of violet stars and blue green meteors; we arrived into the paradise we temporarily built. Our bruised fingers played the strings of our reckless bodies, shivering with each innocent touch.
We did not know what was right or immoral, but, as long as we felt the bliss of the white lines, we would give in. I sat and rolled the thin paper; I harshly sniffed the pulverized gem on the filthy floor of our makeshift apartment. The immediacy of delight aroused my dead nerves and covered the sorrows I should feel.
But I had breathed in the last line and your emotions began to dwindle.
You held my throat until I gulped for breaths. I could feel your broken gasps upon my cherry cheeks—your painful words did not make me bleed. A smile floated onto my lips before you forcefully injected your rugged fingers in my wet center; I repressed a loud moan as my toes curled.
Kill me with my own pretense.
I had always dreamed of you—I weaved and put them in my chest. The 30 years between our ages only heightened my desire for you. After a year of waiting, we finally met halfway. It was peaceful start, but the dark days came with the hidden troubles.
You began to dose me with your addicting drugs.
It was happening—the collision of our bodies, raw and kisses of flesh—yet I could not handle it, this time. It felt expected—a scripted play.
Did we forget how to bloom?
WORD COUNT: 263
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