sticky-sweet sequin queen, popping vicodin through cherry red lips backstage, getting ready to sweat out all of those feelings you never got to share with that pretty boy because you wouldn’t let his tongue out from between your teeth long enough to tell him you loved him for something more than the way he grabbed your hair in his hands when you gave him a sugar rush.

thigh-high angel, all bruised knees and protruding hipbones, lace bras and black eyeliner just the way he likes it — it’s okay if the bags under your eyes get a little darker, if it means you get to stay up all night listening to him talk about what he’d do to you and your babydoll skin in candy coated words that linger on his lips like lollipop stains.

he’ll tell you about all of the times he ate so many sweets, they almost killed him; about when he had another rose of a girl, and how you’re just so young in comparison. neither of you will have done anything right in so long that you can’t imagine this’ll hurt. let yourself melt in his mouth until there’s nothing left of you.