No Seriously, I Heart Gingers

I was gonna write this dreary post about boys.

I was going to write this sickly cloying note about how tired I am of having the "Oh shit, we probably shouldn't have done that" sex.

I was almost about to scan in this note I wrote a few years ago that is unintentionally hilarious in its "I'm SO depressed, and this acid is totally not helping, and probably the low serotonin from coming down off that tab I took earlier, but man, what is wrong with me?" naivety.

Honestly, I wanted to sit down and have this lovely little masterpiece come out of my fingers to my keyboard and really show all of my readers (sup Malaysia!) that I have some fucking talent, and that I'm not some waste of space on the internet.

But my muse is taking a fucking smoke break out back right now, and I'm too grossed out by my inability to create anything of value without her.  So today I'm just going to post this thing about boys and feelings, and hope that it will stand alone without a bunch of me rambling about who it is about, and why I hate it, and why I have such a sick obsession with redheads.  Enjoy.

F-L-A  (or, The Inspiration Strikes at Odd Hours)

Marble skin gets bent over a marble sink, and the decadent acts destroy all feelings of purity that could be construed from the portrait of white. A cold hard exterior trimmed in flame, but no hidden heart lies beating beneath. Only unemotional eyes that seldom if ever convey the truth. He sinks his teeth into me, and sucks out every drop of warmth I have. He keeps me as his pet, to him only am I subservient, obeying, willing. I beg for mercy, for a sign of compassion beneath the cruel games we play. Eventually his amusement falters, and no longer am I the girl he seeks to feed upon, no longer does the blood run freely. So he finishes the job. I lie alone in a strange bed, far from home, empty, dead, sucked dry. My last sight is his flame trimmed cold marble body streaming away from me as he runs.