I speak carefully in clichés and pretty words all strung together. These sinners are giving me a bad name; don’t think that I’m such a suck up. This mix of pain and pleasure is painting a black butterfly. You’ve fallen, oh poor lover boy, but don’t give up so easily. I saved up for fifteen years just to buy this hideousness. Will you give me a kiss sweet sixteen? Twisting your delicate words into harsh reality is my illustrious skill; it’ll drown you in my bleak, jaded reality. So brace yourself and take a few deep breaths; let out those moans you held in because I know I make you scream out.
This loser got nowhere with butterfly wings and melodies. You giggle with a sweet innocence that makes me want to leave a burn across your snow white skin. I’m the nouveau Satan, so will you get sinful with me? You should stop digging holes, ’cause they’re starting to look like graves, kid. This story should of been a tragedy, but with a dash of spice and little less sugar, we’ll make something repulsive. I’d be anything, say anything for you. It’s just gotten so fake from these glass masks. I’ll salute you, baby, for all the trouble you’ve given me.
My thoughts don’t organize, they just collect and overflow out into the airwaves. Speak a little mysterious, little Miss Wisteria. More effort doesn’t always yield better results; we’ve been “trying” at this for far too long. Still you push so hard for a miracle. You’re counting down on roll call intuitions. I’m out of graceful phrases.
Rikki [not romance]