Mutter fingers broke the bone of a well kept tolerance with conniving lust.
I am holy. I am the sanctuary.
I peel the mind of a welly slicked boy and shuttered a power of space and all cost, I am broken.
Drainage, flowing the hair lit must of our little room, where we could madly be.
Pain seeks to the tips of a slender mocking of our well breasted delight.
Whimsical we were on a broken, soundless set.
I wished to be stricken with love for you, boy,
as my thoughts lied deep within the rotting rape, behind white paint.
I burst my agonizing terror of the maybes I would have done to the doll face,
on to the plated metal my hands should rightfully be.
For the bruised bones left me a line of desire to let honeymoons smirk upon my unwelcome chest.
So, I can be a nest for my words to become a stairway of regretful realizations, that I am in no foam bubble she hopes to pop.
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