Tattersail

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