Pink flushed cheeks and white washed knuckles with a shaky grip on the porcelain sink.
'One last time,' a whispered promise, a magic spell, spoken from cracking lips to reflection.
One. Last. Time.
And some things you do just to see how bad they make you feel. Mistakes made in technicolour.
Black from all the drinks.
Crimson red from a metallic sting.
Rainbow addictions to distract.
By now, mirror full of marks. Every word, every moment, every sigh, every touch and half smile.
Body a canvas of held breathes - waiting to be his 'sometimes'.
Mark after mark added because maybe he'll treat me nicer if the pain can be seen.
A visual hell of 'maybe we're not meant to be'.
But yet, become my favourite 'what if'.
Maybe we're meant to meet the wrong people.
Story starting in the dark with someone no better than a stranger as another ends with someone as close as your own breath.
And maybe his lips tasted like every dark thought I've ever had but his hands felt like every day dream I've ever dreamed.
I didn't desired pearls, or marbled palaces and words whispered of sunshine essence - I craved the rust, and the decay of once beautiful flowers and moon beams.
I wanted his darkness.
Latibule means, a small hiding place, a place of comfort and security.
In the dark, from wondering lips and dancing fingertips - sex spells woven but not spoken.
And that cast was my latibule.
Tell me, when the night has left us, will the spell remain?
It's terrifying.
Know love will break - it's comforting.
And when it does, denial unravels - remember what you are.
And what you do.
Pink flushed cheeks and white washed knuckles with a shaky grip on the porcelain sink.
'One more time,' a whispered promise, a magic spell, spoken over and over from cracking lips to reflection.
One. More. Time.
And you drain the spilt blood from the sink.
