i--kuzuremasu

Look at her; she’s a porcelain doll with never-ending milk legs all stapled to the bed, thirteen years young with forty-eight years suffocating her figure. He’s right up to her baby lips, offering cigarette breath and grinding his stubble on her cheeks, it reminds her of gravel and she closes her eyelids as it falls across her neck, inhaling the cloud of dust. The curtains are draped across the sky, dried blood red casting shadows she can’t tell the ends of. A dim flicker of a light and maybe a filter of moonshine illuminate the crevasses of his eyelids, forehead and awry mouth. His skin tastes of sweat and earth. She was wit