You are an instrument that only plays music when strum an unorthodox way. You do not care for soul ripping, for clear blood dripping from ghost pupils.
You say no, your mind is full to the brim and your ideas swim amongst the sharks in your veins as you struggle to break from your iron restraints.
Cannot be trapped, can only be captured as well as air in a jar. Open mouthed kisses and tongues hissing against each other amidst risen hairs and harsh breath against your collarbone.
You yearn for adventure, for cliffhangers, for doubt, suspense, wonderment, the blazing orange sun drowning into the parched savannah.
For the erotic wind that will stroke the strings of your thoughts so sensually, as if you own her, as if you’ll crown her your slave.
How I wish I could heal you. To stitch together the broken glass with the glue that holds my promises together.
But how can I stand at the edge of a cliff, when I live for the thrill of the jump?
Sarah J writes for a living and writes to keep her sanity alive. She likes tea.