Your presence is like a hole, filled with brightly colored glares, polished by the smooth lick of your lips. You want wild love, furious passion, and the smell of honey in your pocket-book, and on the fingertips of every stranger’s lonely glare. You want a spinning wheel of lovers coughing up one for every day, groveling fools at your feet. You want death, to hear the music of scorched remains under each measured step. You want ash smeared under your sad eyes. You’ll let them wake in the morning to watch your thin silhouette stretching before the sun, rising over your wasteland of lovers.
But where do you go when you’re too tired to smile for them? Where do the masks go to hide?