lenoraduvall

O Vincent,

Treat me like the page of a book. Flesh, like Paper. Unhook my dress, Vincent, and cover my skin with your words.

So a once tender taste of peaches now leaves the saccharine smacks of rotten fruit flesh as it kisses your wettened lips.

The rampant disregard, and unkempt brambles of youth. But we Fester and tamper with the innocent garden, and rid it of the weeds and bees. No more will she make garlands for her hair with the simple buttercups.

And the distant buzz will soon be hushed, leaving her without the sweet honey she so loved. Infect her moist soil with the corpses of your dead childhood fairies.