(no subject)
A sashay.
Swish of the hips and he was down the hall.
A lick of the lips; A gesture which anyone could call…
Provocative.
Kinky.
What's wrong with this picture?
A nineteen year old with a seventeen year old lover he certainly doesn't love.
No, he's made that quite clear.
A youth so young when counting the mortal plane (with defined enough features to be called a heartless bitch with a single glance his way) that it almost hurt to think about the atrocities he'd come to claim as his own.
A sadistically young James Dean complete with the twitch of a limb and hint of a smile that could bring the boys crawling to him on their hands and knees.
And he used it.
And he flaunted it all.
Because he couldn't care less.
//Could he be more happy?//
Cancer.
Have you not realized...
Gray smoke hair
And your crimson eyes
You are my poison
My sweet suicide.
A drag on a Marlboro and an expulsion of air.
A nonchalant sigh.
Another puff and perfectly formed rings were released into the haze. Free as dogs.
Birth had given him the right to smoke, the way he saw it in that twisted mind he obtained. An evil mother had attempted to stop him. So many times.
And one too many. He hadn't been able to take it.
That whore.
But hidden packages beneath bloodstained sheets and pillow cases handed to him by a devil of a "dad", those had kept him breathing.
Only the naive ones were left to tell him to quit.
Pay no matter-- He was a rulebreaker.
A heartbreaker.
Break in anything.
And on his word, he'd broken many things in.
And those smirk painted lips would never lie, except to relieve themselves of the lies his own mind had fooled him into believing.
Swish of the hips and he was down the hall.
A lick of the lips; A gesture which anyone could call…
Provocative.
Kinky.
What's wrong with this picture?
A nineteen year old with a seventeen year old lover he certainly doesn't love.
No, he's made that quite clear.
A youth so young when counting the mortal plane (with defined enough features to be called a heartless bitch with a single glance his way) that it almost hurt to think about the atrocities he'd come to claim as his own.
A sadistically young James Dean complete with the twitch of a limb and hint of a smile that could bring the boys crawling to him on their hands and knees.
And he used it.
And he flaunted it all.
Because he couldn't care less.
//Could he be more happy?//
Cancer.
Have you not realized...
Gray smoke hair
And your crimson eyes
You are my poison
My sweet suicide.
A drag on a Marlboro and an expulsion of air.
A nonchalant sigh.
Another puff and perfectly formed rings were released into the haze. Free as dogs.
Birth had given him the right to smoke, the way he saw it in that twisted mind he obtained. An evil mother had attempted to stop him. So many times.
And one too many. He hadn't been able to take it.
That whore.
But hidden packages beneath bloodstained sheets and pillow cases handed to him by a devil of a "dad", those had kept him breathing.
Only the naive ones were left to tell him to quit.
Pay no matter-- He was a rulebreaker.
A heartbreaker.
Break in anything.
And on his word, he'd broken many things in.
And those smirk painted lips would never lie, except to relieve themselves of the lies his own mind had fooled him into believing.