Mar 2015
This feeling.
This phase.
Let it die.
My bones and heart are weary,
Beyond sickness or displeasure.
Let me wallow in this lousy passion,
I want the ripe solace of moist flesh,
Succulent sin.
This phase.
Let it die.
My bones and heart are weary,
Beyond sickness or displeasure.
Let me wallow in this lousy passion,
I want the ripe solace of moist flesh,
Succulent sin.
