Masquerade
You should see the mask that you have. I can see right through that mask.
I revel in the bullet holes, complete with your deep calm eyes to persuade and charm our guests. The mask that I have melts into my skin with each drip of sweat from my brow as I waltz by you. You put on a mask and stare. I know what’s there. I can feed that, with the spit that falls from my lips and a smooth swish of my legs across your thigh. My eyes were the ones that burned the bullet holes, you were the one who put eyes there to cover it up.
You don’t deserve a mask. My mask is on for the sake of formality and poise. My mask: crimson, draped over my bare skin like a curtain, letting the light of my skin shine through. Yours: shoved tightly on to constrict your temples, halfway balancing it on the tip of your nose (I bet I can balance it on the tip of your cock), the dirty hue of soot.
With that slight brush of a toe against your skin, I will take your mind and tango on the dance floor, showing every guest there exactly what you are. And you will get plastic looks, plastic laughs, plastic language muttering between ears made out of rubber. Stained white smiles and balloon breasts. Your small cock balancing the crumbled mask. Little bits of it crumble off, ashes, burning from the tips of my fingers.
Hours pass. Plastic melts. Quiet wooden floors echo with each beat of your heart. Just your soul left to rot before me. Your tongue sticky, aching for a drip. Your ribs like a dried carcass, licked clean by the vultures of the night. I burn the last little inch of you with a distinct gaze, one you know well and you aren’t quite sure why. Hunger and thirst for something more than food or water.
I pick up an empty glass from the table covered in red drapes, letting light shine through. Fill it.
Peel the tip of your stone skull from the ground, see your watery eyes dry up under me, and let your sorry lips drink from the glass. My nails trace circles at the top of your spine, petting your nerves and sending warmth through one simple touch. A smile curves on my full red lips, and echos in these burning eyes. I watch you gulp like a neglected child, eager to feel safe again. My nails on your neck. The mask is dissolved. Your lips around that glass, feeding off of my golden piss. We are alive again.
