Hypocrite

The thirst of fresh blood never ends. Nothing like a starting story.

Sadness becomes a shield for the uncanny and for the afraid alike.

When her silence destroyed my security, we drank to die. We ate fantasies of forgotten loves and burped when full. We then bit on sweet vaginas full with pain.
She saw her wolf in me. She knew our paths were crossed all over, tainted with breath, saliva and truth.

We improvised.

We sang with our lungs through the very old streets, singing Dylan with a stranger following us. The stranger listened and played his ukulele perfectly. This stranger gave us our connection, for a moment.

Then we panicked.

I tasted the moisture of her body dripping on my ring finger, she tried to destroy my mouth with her tongue.
She then spat on my teeth with disdain, having a very small orgasm while doing it. She wanted to become an honest beast but remembered her father's voice and stopped.

I never liked her, I just wanted to see if her insides were that perfect mix of pink and gray.
She hated me from the start, she only wondered if my mind tasted like yellow carnations when bitten.

We seem to be the sad remains of what survived from our past.

So yes, I could love you, but fuck you.