Literature
Your Whore
Lipstick, the colour of your kiss,
smeared all over and
cheeks too flushed for your, my, liking.
Dark lines around eyes and fake
beauty marks painted on
the faces you, I, gaze upon,
but don't really see.
Greasy flesh under stained, laced dresses.
You stare at, past, the
tiny breasts greedily and
run your fingers under the petticoat,
caressing the outer cells, too numb.
Finger your way to
the opening of the trashed soul
which would give itself to you.
Dirty hair and the stale whiskey stinking in the jaws.
Hot butterflies flutter all over,
burn into the shadow
of the groans which gurgle from within,
where you control th