POINT TO WHERE IT HURTS
She would take her finger and point to her heart.
To where all the broken fragments scattered, where prayers laid upon the blanket of fallen hopelessness for you to simply love her.
The one thing you were supposed to do, but failed at. The one thing you promised, but broke.
Why must she pray to an empty night, to a God she did not believe in for an answering star, a whisper from the colored wind.
She will bow her head, the thick night tangling her hostage. As branches will rip through her skin resembling her old homes orange blossom tree, the hills of her curvaceous body dripping in your lies. That she also grew for you.
Something beautiful that scared you, she forced herself to be scared of, too.
Demon contemplations.
The devil fondling her silky skin, licking the milk beads that decorated her like Twilight's lover. Like he belonged to her, and she belonged to him.
Her sweet nectar now seeping in degraded prejudice.
The lonely nights where she let you want her, where she let your sharp venomous teeth sink into her neck. Your spell washing into her blood, turning water to stone, earth to iron, green grass to frosted white. Your large hands slipping into her waistband and her- mistaking it for love, accepting it, and allowing it; just happy to be the one for the hour.
Always pretty and sexy when you crawled at her door at midnight to tell her sweet promises, your shameless trail leaving your previous causalities slime. Never beautiful, or good enough to be called yours, but good enough for a fuck.
But the once vanquished sun will rise, and the oranges will bloom, as your honey will become sweet again, and you will grow. New Hampshire will weep, the nights will be yours again and you shall dip into the cold lake to your pleasing.
Casual visitations.
