Sunlight beaming through the glass covered room, rays of light dancing on the walls. An artist is at home in her gallery, painting the world through her vison alone. Stark naked, flawless, the canvas waiting for the first strike of her brush. Colors so vibrant they out shine the sun, she follows the pattern of light from the stained glass windows across the way. Dark, dangerous, and filled with the sins of the world, she prays without a God present that when the sun kisses the moon goodnight, she doesn’t become her own canvas.
Walking into the past, the scent of sin laced her lips. Seductive moves, her hands tracing over his chest, nails dragging till the beds of her nails painted with red. Nothing is as it seems. Sugar is meant to melt when the heat boils over. To taste it is to be blessed, to burn is to find pleasure in her pain.
So delicate he parted her lips, the moment the sweet nectar touches his fingers, all of humanity drains from his soul. Not man, but beast, his nails scar the walls that bind them, A fury unleashed at depths that can never be repaired.
His hand to her neck, he reminded her where she belonged. He had already carved his name deep in her slick walls, the pads of his nails still covered with the memories. Shoving his fingers down her throat, he fed her his addiction.
She was raped with his words. Her life taken by everything he ever told her. Soul stripped and bared for the vultures to peck from. They call it the circle of life. You die to feed others. Her heart once radiant with life, tightened with each lie he ever told. Dear Agony, I’m waiting. Make it swift.
Fingers collapsing around her throat, her eyes smeared with tears. Quickly she was losing the last of the air in her lungs. No is not a word in his vocabulary, nor one she should have used. Slowly as the smirk played upon his lips, he took the last of what she had, watching those beautiful blues seal for the last time. “Pity, you could have been special.”
He played in her toxic playground to feed his addiction for abuse. Screaming, crying, begging, the violence became too much. In the end, she didn’t kill him, he committed emotional suicide with his own words.
Pacing the floors of her home, she was bored out of her mind. At 18, she should be out partying with kids her age, but there was something different about this one. She needed things that a man her age could never provide. Maybe that’s why she preferred them all over 35 years of age. So much time passed since she was with a man. She needed to know she could still get one for some reason. Well, if she wanted one. A few hours of fun was all she needed to get her mind to where she needed.Continue reading “-Self love”
“Dave, we need to speak,” Gypsy said.
After two years of working for this man, she couldn’t do it anymore. Every time she told Dave something was off, he laughed in her face and sent her anyway. Most of the time, Gypsy was right to be concerned. Frank Paloma being the main reason she was leaving this place. His abuse took her to the breaking point. The fact that Dave laughed forced her to lose all trust in this man. How can you work for someone who has no soul? Gypsy was quickly learning the hard way that she was better than the life she chose. There was no way in hell her daughter would grow up with a mother who was “Just a whore.”Continue reading “I quit”