Heathens gyrating and rhythmically thrusting their pelvis through the streams of sleepwalking flesh.
I suppose if I followed in suit with this I could be enchanted with some ****** liberation.
The thing is buried in the back of my cheery playground mind remains a lonesome tree swing chirping the romanticized idea of a genuine love.
One that would cleanse me of my misery and caustic taste in my mouth.
People often ask me why I refrain from nosediving into the pool of greasy lipped grinning men.
The truth of the matter is it has less to do with me not believing in love, but the indelible truth of desperately yearning for such a love I fear is extinct.