Pleasure of the Damned
He was raw chaos and words off the cuff, pure sin beneath the sheets. We were the same kind of different embodying the poetry in things. I wore red lipstick, and he’d kiss it off. He told me I was pretty, but I knew I was not.
I’m drowning above water and staring down the demon as I write. I sip my bourbon straight and prefer rejection whiskey-neat. Though, things are seldom what they seem or what we wish.
Bukowski’s best lying on my nightstand makes me think. Is this all there is, a reduction of things? Words that once held meaning are gathering dust. Pretty things, pretty useless things. This is what love does grabs a hold, sucks you under when you least expect.
Mess of bones with tunneled out marrow, all that’s left.
The monkey’s off my back, and here we sit. Now, I’m staring down the demon as I think.
Red lips, no goodbyes, I leap.
© Grace Black
Fiction written for Flash! Friday Micro Fiction Contest
I should still be writing for NaNoWriMo but couldn’t resist popping in at Flash!Friday. All right back to the novel.