broken cameras line dirty palms and bewitching hands for lips. of which she caresses her skin and takes pictures, stores burning memories of a skilled love brimming with overstimulation. a burden like her polaroid eyes skimming her figure, an isthmus between lust and carnal instinct too strict to reprimand like nicotine. she is white-lines-smooth, fragrance and fragments piecing her together only to break her apart again like romeo's tragedy told twice. surrender to her like gun-powder worship and shall you live a life too sullenly laced to a fault. eye-locking, lip-licking royalty coursing meticulously through her veins like falsified poetry becoming something a little more than wicked intrusion and unholy alliance.
and with open eyes screaming of inexperience and golden trepidation, she lets her whisper, goddamnit, just ruin me.
