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cassiopeia miel Nov 2015
Let's start the game, a paint-by-numbers and I'll share the blame. I'll hypnotise you with a little dance, put you in a mild trance.

You're trying to pour salt on an already-festering wound, one made from more pressing worries than the likes of a swelling waistline and blossoming bingo wings. (I'll build ya up and hit ya right where it hurts, remove the specific pieces to make you topple, a Jenga game brought to reality and the duality between us is electricity to the thousandth volt degree. )
Dive-bomb into my veins and see if we do bleed the same, because all I taste is stardust and silvery moonbeams to your tempestuous fire and rust.

Mew mew; a sultry ***-kitten in the bedroom and a cat clawing at a scratch post on the battleground; you are sandpaper and you are silk and you rub me raw and I'll still beg for more, more, more.
This is assisted *******, a wholly strange relation(ship in a bottle), please don't shake or it'll break and crush the illusion; a crack at the mast, so it doesn't matter even if you try and hold fast.

Baby, I've got you right where I want you, teetering on the edge of a razor blade balanced on my nose. I could open my mouth and swallow you whole; say hello to his taste dancing on my tongue, a ghost of a reflection in his eyes; a tracing of the rotation of my hips. You may have him cowed, but I will always come 'round and unlock the pen so he can ravage and run rampant and free.

— The End —