[COMMENT YOUR NAME LBL FOR A TBH + RATE]
Marlboro. The taste. The only brand that intoxicated her better than the rest after a night of senseless adventure of her own. Ashes dropping off the tip of burning rolled tar, stains and burns planted once again on white bed sheets. Gentle snores filling the air, the tussled mess beside her. Correction: tussled meaningless mess. Her fingers picked at one of the many dozen Polaroids off the bed, certain images bringing nothing but flashbacks of fun. Flashbacks of pain. “Cute.” The female muttered softly, tossing the image aside as she leaned over to grab the half empty glass of alcohol from the night before. The very poison that continued to produce toxicity in her veins.
White sheet tangled across her slender frame, the only sense of dignity in sight. Her neck covered in purple, blue and black. The prettiest colours, the colours that matched her soul and fears. The colours that induced her in pleasurable pain. A grin stained her pretty pink lips, her brown eyes scanning her body and the marks left throughout. Cigarette burns. Wax residue. Ring marks. The very scars that ensured her pleasure and her love for the night, and only that night. Pretty polaroids across the floor, images of her. Images of him. Images of them. A dozen or so. How else do you ensure the pain if not through a photo? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
- 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚.
RUMI DE LUCA. 23. ITALIAN. WRITER. PHOTOGRAPHER. SADIST. SMOKER AND DRINKER. DARK THOUGHTS. VAN GOGH. PRETTY LAUGH. BISEXUAL AND SINGLE. FLIRTY FUCK. EASY TO PLEASE. HARD TO KEEP.