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Paper Vases

I walked alongside her. As she spoke about the color of her prom dress, she began pushing back her long, black hair over her shoulder so it looked as though a waterfall beautifully fell over her collarbone. Through the corners of my eyes, I watched her hands as they caressed the paper vase of flowers which matched the color of her cheeks and the lilac in her shirt, with the smell of last night's laundry day. And when she spoke, stars traveled through her words forming constellations on her tongue, skimming the pupils of his eyes. My words were just sounds to him. The flowers he had given her didn't match the color of my eyes, and had no resemblance of the feeling of my touch.

I guess when you asked me to get high with you, I acted as company, cause you hate feeling alone. I guess when you insisted on walking me to work, you just had time to spare and found enjoyment in the neckline of my shirt falling a little too low. I guess when you texted me at two in the morning letting me know that the song I showed you was stuck in your head, acted more as an annoyance rather than a personal memory or knick-knack. And I knew you were bad for me, and i knew that you had some sort of fetish for creating pain in the vulnerable, but I never knew how weak I was until I watched her bring your flowers up to her nose and inhale the smell of your hopes and dreams, and your fear of rejection. She inhaled your mind which is filled with polaroid pictures of her. Each petal made up his thoughts of her and her words, and my broken promises I had created with myself; with my own thoughts desperately convincing myself that I didn't have feelings for you. And as I found myself staring at the petals left behind on the sidewalk, I went back to step on them.

Rich Man Gone Mad.

On The Mad Ink3r

Living a fast-paced life is something I've been accustomed to for a few years, now. The same routine as follows: work at the office, return home for a lonely dinner, and listen to the same love song on repeat. A quiet apartment always drives me insane, but one day I'll rebel against my daily routine.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a loser for going to Jimmy's Bar alone, almost every weekend. Usually I sit there in my expensive name-brand clothes and order expensive drinks. Twelve dollars a round for a glass of Scotch, and I'm at it like a mad man that hasn't sexed a woman in ages. I like to drink off the dry spell, but normally I get interrupted by the desperate bartender who looks like a slut. Her cleavage almost close to her chin, and messy weave that looks all knotted and unattractive with her tight clothes. I hate desperate sluts that want to nail me for a buck, but I'm won't tolerate it at all! And it's always the ugly ones.

Love has messed me up badly, just like the punk ass B*tch that left me for her pimp. "He loves me Ron, and I gave my heart to him" that's all I hear in my ears. She didn't give her heart to him, them legs of hers got parted like the Red Sea. The last thing she told me was that she loved me, but she needed to move the fuck on. She was only about materialistic things anyway! I guess with a body to lust after she could get any man to want her: Big breast, Wide ass, good pus$y, and tall bare legs. I swear if I ever see her again, I'd do something to her like no other. No, I don't mean kill her but maybe sexually torture her like she did to me.

Alice, she had me under a spell that I couldn't break. Maybe there were blinders that she put over my eyes like they do with a horse. The woman had me wrapped around her finger, and still I could smell the lingering of her perfume that she'd wear strictly for our love making sessions. There couldn't have been any real love in this situationship for her to leave me so helpless. All Alice did was give me love in the most dirty ways, but I liked it for some reason. The kinkiness was arousing and tempting, but it was about time that I moved on just like she did.

Six months, and still she's gone and never coming back to me. If I could just find a classy woman with goals and clothes, maybe I'd get something better in the mailing package. I do know that only women who don't play those childish games holds the key to the kind of love I need. I can't do another lonely dinner night with just the sound of a fork hitting the plate and my teeth, anymore.

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