Temporary emotion.

As your hand slid out of mine, omnipotence clicked its stopwatch to a painful start, click. Looking forward to this, we are, as a slaughterer waits for Mondays to skin something alive. It’s days from hell, days when all you’d love to do is stop and scream, days when nothing matters but the blunt fingernails pressing curves into your back, or was it a dream?

But every morning, the faint red breaths of texture marring your skin strike you like Ali with the truth. Only occasional occurrence makes it all okay, right?

Baby, does it make you sense, perhaps a scent similar to matches or tar, how you reek of deception? You’re transparent as a bulimic’s skin, and your defenses fall apart like paper succumbing to a flame. Click.