vulgar motel rooms on the south of verona; shrouded in the corners of second stories with ruptured heaters and numbing floors. his bareback stained with scattershot freckles arduously mirroring the forsaken rising of lunatic moons and anarchic constellations of cotton candy stars.
lacy midnight draping alongside venus holes confining dirty dainty secrets and back pocket whispers- her hip bones prolific to bloom daisies akin to the ones his mama used to place in his tangled curls. white sheets drowned in gardenia detergent, disengaged rouge shirts with loosened ties around corroding knobs.
their famished hearts stroked each other as he wrote boundless stories inside of her with his pruned fingers. she quivered against the letters that leisurely drizzled down her thighs just so he could siphon them back up with that plump pomegranate lips of his.
pour some gasoline on the unveiled bodies, let the five neon-lit letters spelling motel be the discarded cancer-stick that ignite the two epitomes of deceptive love on fire.
the room flooded with mourns and gasps, let it be the cry for help.
tsk, silly boy.
YOU ARE READING
guava achings ✓
Poetrybanquets of succulent peaches in tin cans and pretty boys with passionflowers blossoming from their cuticles.
