Warren’s writing ficlets again and dinosaur flesh has been found. I suppose these make up for my utter lack of chocolate eggs. That and holy hells, this, (albeit brilliant), thread went critical overnight. When I first peeked, there were a total of three comments. (irrh I used yours).
I think, “this is fine.” and I laugh a little at my arrogant idiocy. I wanted candles last night and maybe I’ll want them tonight too, but the urge is slipping away like silk I can’t hold onto, like a balloon drifting upward. There’s more than one item a girl can scatter around the house. I’d take a picture, but my camera is out of batteries. How would I hold it, any way, to show the bruises that aren’t there anymore? What angle of temptation possible exists? I can’t explain the clench of muscle that tears me sweetly with a picture. I don’t know how.
Tonight dancing in a pool of black eyeliner, spiky bracelets, and fishnet stockings, I’m going to look a little out of place. Dress up masquerade like as not, a line-up for the bar and bloodshots cheap mixed mash-up with candy coloured ravenettes. Gravers with black shirts over orange pants. Trigger happy on the floor, hands in the air and obvious shifts in beat and harmony. I’m not expecting anything, not even a good time.