Vermilion orange tastes bitter upon my tongue, my mind is tainted black.
Thick charcoal oozes between the cracks.
You know my heart risides, beneath the sole of your foot. Death sits upon the head of your first Barbie doll across her plastic bosoms and shiny ass. She taught you that sinsiter smile, as she flings her golden locks at Ken's pulsing plastic underwear, welted deep around his crotch. Death is the passing wind that took your breath away when his lips pressed gently upon yours for the very first time, causing you to shiver with warmth and to recognize an unfamiliar ache in the creves of your legs. Death resides in that first cigarett, when you inhailed deeply, that cloud of poison allowing it to plaster your lungs, forming a pair of porcelin dolls till one day, they shatter into a thousand pieces.