Language as bullets.

My question was a .38 special and your answer was an M16, both statements fully loaded.

Your hot screams grazed my skin, thick like gun smoke and these bullets were simply burning goodbyes with plenty of shrapnel to stick in my skin because God forbid I can't forget this trauma.

At least it's a consistant 98.6 (Stress Ulcer: 1 Shelly: 0)

Twitching soggy wings floating in fragrant bile like confetti in battery acid.

Legs still kicking from the nerves who have yet to get the depressing message that their services will no longer be required as the factory that was once a living insect has drowned in it's own self debt.

Your face is spilling butterflies after you challenged them to live in your stomach

But no;

They just keep coming back up in nervous defeat, hoping to choke you up one last time.

Your face is spilling little red rivers of varying sizes diluting with the clear streams, desperate for a fluid friend or competitive foe,

But just the like the once graceful flying bug gone zombie of vomit with mixed feelings,

It's crimson for the win.

SHORT DIRTY POEM! HURRARY!

My thoughts are in your arms.
My heart is on your floor.
I want my body in your bed,
And for you to shut the door.

You can have my cake, but no one should have to eat that.

Layers of whipped, light fluffy sugar puff
Glucose bliss like licking your fingers clean
Of crumbling crisp and flaky melancholy
Overshadowing the gooey unassuming center filling with a heat
That cools under the rolling slow curtains from your eyes
And a bluish tint coming up and rising into your cheeks;
First red with heat, then cool with indigo,
Strains of yellow and purple on the petals of your skin
(No, it's not a posy)
Armed with an ache is all your blushing gone bruising.
Soft and sweet isn't likely
When all that blood pools under your skin
Makes it as hard as your mouth is when it tries to choke down
The sick farse of a confection you call everyday.
Slowly grinding mandibles of monotony
Like a machine running on molasses
And clogging all the gears with gingersnaps.
All that over eating and all that clotted cream
Whipping you into a droning submission
That you need to burn to get out of
That nice wall for your face to collide with
Oh, a girl can dream
But oh, it can make a girl so tired
And the stinging your tongue makes running
Along the inside of your mouth
And the icing of hot blood garnishing your lip
Is a reminder that you can still feel,
But it's not good
And you are simply frosting on a fake world
And too much of anything will make you sick to your stomach.