Baby, is my blood boiling on your tongue? Don't be shy, and hide by drinking away from your empty cup. Though your skin may glisten with the sun, you are no more mundane than the cuts on my skin, or the burning longed breath in my throat. Poison etches on your splotched and scarred skin, and paints my lips with the colour of bruises. Cantankerous, an anger swells and bursts into flames in your head. My, my, not only cold, but dark, and dead.
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