...must be a warm place.
He came shooting heroin like the very first needle to penetrate her veins: the sweet oozing ecstacy causing blood to rise closer to the skin. Everything swelled and the room shrank away. If she could think at this moment she may just have well cried but the all too overwhelming feeling took hold like a rabid dog foming at the lips.
Gentle is the quiet slumber of the dust on the floor stirring slightly by a creatures walk but always there constant and infinite: particles too small to feel cold to the touch. She blamed the floor for the icy sting on her feet.
Harsh are his hands at her hips biting the haunches; purple, green, yellow. A painful aside to a later date when she realizes the abuse that she takes, that she needs.
But that long hollow shaft stays ever clear in a hazy polluted mind, in a bent and fucked up world. the constant cut to cold, hot piercing pleasure soothes and serves perfection on a silver platter; silver spoon. If only she would stop once in a while and turn it over. Look at the tarnish on the underside and see that sparkling silver lining give birth only to a very black cloud. And now heat diminishes with every next fix. The dust, once impossible cold, now lines everything inside and out and to touch is only a cold floor waiting without that little whit packet...
It's alright though. Theres one instinct that seems to inhabit the deep dark place at the back of everyones mind and, though she has lost her's, I can take comfort that she will be warm once again as she spirals towards death. Because, well, death from this world must be a warm place.
He came shooting heroin like the very first needle to penetrate her veins: the sweet oozing ecstacy causing blood to rise closer to the skin. Everything swelled and the room shrank away. If she could think at this moment she may just have well cried but the all too overwhelming feeling took hold like a rabid dog foming at the lips.
Gentle is the quiet slumber of the dust on the floor stirring slightly by a creatures walk but always there constant and infinite: particles too small to feel cold to the touch. She blamed the floor for the icy sting on her feet.
Harsh are his hands at her hips biting the haunches; purple, green, yellow. A painful aside to a later date when she realizes the abuse that she takes, that she needs.
But that long hollow shaft stays ever clear in a hazy polluted mind, in a bent and fucked up world. the constant cut to cold, hot piercing pleasure soothes and serves perfection on a silver platter; silver spoon. If only she would stop once in a while and turn it over. Look at the tarnish on the underside and see that sparkling silver lining give birth only to a very black cloud. And now heat diminishes with every next fix. The dust, once impossible cold, now lines everything inside and out and to touch is only a cold floor waiting without that little whit packet...
It's alright though. Theres one instinct that seems to inhabit the deep dark place at the back of everyones mind and, though she has lost her's, I can take comfort that she will be warm once again as she spirals towards death. Because, well, death from this world must be a warm place.