she had colors running through her veins and creativity seeping from her soul
her lips often tasted like paint and broken promises, but her brown eyes held more
she told him, she warned him not to fall in love because she'd just get up and go
and she'd take the pieces with her, of his heart, and leave behind a scene of gore
but he was infatuated with her. maybe it was the way she kissed him at night
when it was insanely quiet and the city was still and there was no one around,
where their warm and wet lips kept them occupied and the stars are the only light,
she'd kiss him slowly but surely their short moans and quiet gasp the only sounds
or maybe it was the way she'd curl her fingers and her toes and grasp at the blankets,
her back arching as she choked on her own moans trying to keep quiet
bottom lip nearly bleeding from the pressure, just his fingers making her this anxious
knowing that if she let go of her bottom lip, her loudest moans could stop a riot
she had angel wings on her back but she preferred the sting of sharpened pitch forks
her hands were rough from years of handling paint brushes and pencil shavings
she told him, no, she begged him not to get attached or fall in love or anything of the sorts
but she had to admit, she did use him to quench and satisfy her deepest cravings