IN THE END, IT WAS ALL ABOUT THE IDEA OF YOU
my ichor orange hair lays ethereal-like across my chest and my taffy poplin lips spread apart to the roof of my car. i'm parked in your driveway with my right hand underneath my mini skirt and moaning my own name over and over until i don't recognize it coming out from my mouth. i'm fucking on cloud 69 and my gums bleed pleasure through my soft, floral whimpers as i quiver in my seat and curse your name.
YOU ARE READING
A FILM FOR YOU
Poetryglossy words put together to make you feel in the middle of a cruel saccharine melody.
