She only appears in parties,
Like an actress portraying a molly induced hallucination, she’s vivid, shimmering, and delightfully playful.
I can taste her aroma,
The tantalizing mix of cigarettes, vaginal secretions, and sweat. Potent, attractive, an ashy pit of decadence.
Yes, I like it a lot,
The bitter sweetness she contains of unfiltered filth and fun. Leather wrapped amorality, unashamed of her flesh.
Pleasantly annoying,
I admit the masochist in myself enjoys how she irks me, flirting and skirting around at her leisure.
I should have that,
I think, as though I could store her inside my dresser, Like I could call her out to play as I desired.
She’s like a rainstorm,
She’s ominous and pretty, only following the whim of nature. I like getting caught in her when she comes.
She only appears in parties,
The life on which she feeds and regurgitates back for everyone. A pretty apparition of social lust.
But nothing more.
Poems and Short Stories 