Sheets stained the same shade as spilled wine. Crushed grapes as payment for years of careful cultivation. A deep and thrumming exaltation from a compressed diaphragm. Floods held in check by anxiety. Rinsing mouths sticky with the taste of a too-long-week, with gulps of drunken joy. Unpainted geisha lips smeared pale with possession. An apotheosis given the shape of pink handprints, and oval teethmarks. There is only ever The One First Time.
11:07 p.m. - 2019-04-10
Recent entries:
Of Bees - 2019-05-04
Interrupted Interpersonals - 2019-05-04
Pines and Needling - 2019-05-04
Claimed Ruination - 2019-04-24
Insufficient Words* - 2019-04-24
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