Cherry girl with hips on fire; Cherry girl with lips that suck the life right out of me. Eyes red from crying, a bosom pressed against my chest to stop me from losing my temper is all it takes to placate my fears. And what a black temper you’ve got, Stephen. What a wicked tongue that licks and spits and curses. Such a spoilt brat you are. Such an overgrown child who needs to be mothered by whatever lover comes along next. A breast in my mouth tastes best, but a glass of wine has a way of healing bruises just as good. It’s like a pair of legs with carpet burns on the knees- so naughty and wolf-like but undeniable even when faced with the repercussions. Sometimes, my favourite sight is a short skirt clinging to a tasty ass, but I know all it’s good for is squeezing out turds, and so I soon change my mind. Flesh gives; it overpowers my brain leaving me numb even to death, but everything shifts before I know what’s going on. There are scars on my shoulders, and as she kneels before me, her fingernails pick away like all those ghosts I’ve tried so hard to hide. There are no tattoos on my body, because what I have to say is contained within these words. My thoughts resemble the pages of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, but only if they’re read in reverse. Writing has changed me, and not for the better. I’m lifeless where once I was love, but my eyes are open, and that means more, somehow. The days were once so carefree where now they drain the blood from my yellow cheeks, and yet I’m real- I’m more for real than I’ve been in my entire life.