I wish I could swipe clean my memory of witnessing femininity. You revived it darling, so breathtakingly; an absolute gentleman was ruined by your Innocent shenanigans, brought down on his knees and blinded by the urge to beg for mercy from all the supreme forces. My dear cancer stick, I’ve been nicotined by you, your fingertips encasing the smoky drags of your soul, my lungs tend to give up on oxygen with each kiss, one drag a shot to my fragile cardiac rhythm. Your starburst eyes, the elegant but poignant caresses of morphine and those wild unruly hairs, although you have no intention to make me sell my psych to the devil for thy sake, I can gamble my breath away to see you succumb to the same primality. It’s a shame you praise my masculinity to an extent where the animal underneath becomes hidden like an obedient puppet to you. How could the wolf not howl to the moon for tempt wrapped with respect is indeed a mayhem.
~THE PENCIL PIRATE