he moved the paintbrush scrutinizingly across the canvas that steadily pervaded with shades of merlot and mahogany. an oh so lovely red rose that gracefully bloomed out of his stained wrist where he wore his sugar-coated heart, kissing his intricate skin that glistening under the first fall of early octobers and the faint sunlight on flooded streets. has she really known him for that long? three summers had passed and he got her facilely hooked around his tiny pinky.
he was a deceiving venus-trap never too darling for a flavorsome heartbreak. and now he had painted a picture- a picture of him and his marigold love for her. it was a peculiar red and she had found herself drawn toward the light strokes like a foolish moth toward a welcoming flame of setting moons and ripened apricots.
walking a little closer- let her curious breath tickle his sensitive neck. now she notices his dainty petals that had slowly started to wilt - was it her fault? he was too painfully pretty. how her vile thorns had pricked his butterscotch skin making scarlet blood ooze out, he had known all along.
there was something about him- she craved to ruin him so badly- though her chili-flaked heart cared too much.
oh, why his choice of red seemed so eccentric- his cuts weren't the only thing that bled.
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guava achings ✓
Poetrybanquets of succulent peaches in tin cans and pretty boys with passionflowers blossoming from their cuticles.
