She wears her past in a present. She keeps it behind the skirt which covers her legs on a what is usually a daily basis. Everyone's always eager to open presents. Presents have ribbons. Nice ribbons people like to pull. But she's forgotten he who gifted her it, and she chooses to keep it quiet and remain in doubt, even if under duress. She could stand like a fork in a desert how ever long she wished, but when the cherry pops, when the strawberry gran, your ribbon better be made of rubber, man.
Soft petals kill slowly, they say. They don't say it, but they could. And it would be good and pure if they did. But they don't (think of it: a world full of weirdos - it would be wonderful). This is part of the problem, and she had wished differences wouldn't stir up trouble as they always always do. And it's a strain to keep your shoes on sometimes.
For the while, she decides to keep it hidden for a little longer, it's not yet time, it could be something terrifying or it might just be sublime. It could turn out to be a parabol to the moon, or she could drop a syllable on her navel pretty soon. Could come quiet as a ninja, or it could shred and mend ya. It could be nice or scary, full of lice and hairy, or the moment when Peter and Paul met Mary. And we definitely can't have that.
He knocks on the door to make his presence known. She was the biggest button he'd ever sown. Running upstairs, quick don't let him see you, don't leave anything behind, she hid in a place he'd never find. So with her clothes intact and her spirit in tatters, she cut the little ribbon that would solve all these matters. While her pupils dilate as she sat on her knees, the swarming noise caused by a sudden breeze lashing against many corners of the house, possibly all of them, and up, down her blouse, and a briny scent coming down the stairs leads him to her, pulling out a pile of worried hair. So it didn't happen, after all. What it took would have to be taken again once again. As they lie on the bed, lying on the bed, deep into the night, she tears herself apart in black and white.
The air coming from underneath the windows makes her hair dance in her face whilst the wind blows. Stepping down two, three, four unsure steps down the ladder, he carries luggage of semen and syrup. And as she sips her asparagus soup in the morning, out on the porch she never had, driving the porsche she never had, she ponders not letting him cum on her breasts ever again.
- i just felt like writing something interesting in reply, and thats what came out. it took about an hour and a half. im posting it on my journal too.
Soft petals kill slowly, they say. They don't say it, but they could. And it would be good and pure if they did. But they don't (think of it: a world full of weirdos - it would be wonderful). This is part of the problem, and she had wished differences wouldn't stir up trouble as they always always do. And it's a strain to keep your shoes on sometimes.
For the while, she decides to keep it hidden for a little longer, it's not yet time, it could be something terrifying or it might just be sublime. It could turn out to be a parabol to the moon, or she could drop a syllable on her navel pretty soon. Could come quiet as a ninja, or it could shred and mend ya. It could be nice or scary, full of lice and hairy, or the moment when Peter and Paul met Mary. And we definitely can't have that.
He knocks on the door to make his presence known. She was the biggest button he'd ever sown. Running upstairs, quick don't let him see you, don't leave anything behind, she hid in a place he'd never find. So with her clothes intact and her spirit in tatters, she cut the little ribbon that would solve all these matters. While her pupils dilate as she sat on her knees, the swarming noise caused by a sudden breeze lashing against many corners of the house, possibly all of them, and up, down her blouse, and a briny scent coming down the stairs leads him to her, pulling out a pile of worried hair. So it didn't happen, after all. What it took would have to be taken again once again. As they lie on the bed, lying on the bed, deep into the night, she tears herself apart in black and white.
The air coming from underneath the windows makes her hair dance in her face whilst the wind blows. Stepping down two, three, four unsure steps down the ladder, he carries luggage of semen and syrup. And as she sips her asparagus soup in the morning, out on the porch she never had, driving the porsche she never had, she ponders not letting him cum on her breasts ever again.
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i just felt like writing something interesting in reply, and thats what came out. it took about an hour and a half. im posting it on my journal too.
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Thank you!
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Goodness!
Haha.
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