Rainfall Writes

Blessed be the yearning

Saccharine words to disguise lust as love; to lure the object of such into submission and bliss under the weight of your bodies pressed heavily upon each other. I’m coughing out hearts and shallow praises, choking on just as many, or I assume they are such because I can’t believe in genuine vulnerability anymore. Smitten turns molten when small pieces of what lies behind the veneer accidentally expose themselves as rotten, rooted in the terrible truths of your own insecurities. You can cover your ears, close your eyes, plug your nose and bite your tongue, but you cannot change the mirror staring at you from the windows of a lovers’ soul. You cannot cut the rotten limb off for long; eventually it must be replaced with a newer, shinier, but secretly just as terrible appendage. For you must grasp doors eventually. But perhaps at the cost of your blood turning septic.

Super short and simple for starts :3