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Morse CodeMy heart goes out to you, standingUnderneath my window, boombox in hand;Did you really think that's a gesture I understand?Everything I said mean-spiritedHides the pains it took to buy this ticket;Every single time I ever liedCovers up how I despise the distance.I left a light on in my bedroom in case my mother came home.Under cover of your thread-count, knocking Morse CodeOn your headboard: SOS, please, someone save me now.We fell into your bed -- parties ragingOn overhead -- with bated breath.Loaded questions lingered fresh inside of my heavy head.Every single tap on your hipbone mapsThe lengths I go to just to avoid the truth;Every little nip on my bottom lipAccuses me of how much I still love you.I left a light on in my bedroom in case my mother came home.Under cover of your thread-count, knocking Morse CodeOn your headboard: SOS, please, someone save me now.Please don't apologize 'cause this wasn't your fault,Even though you left your fingerprints.I saw it in
Domestic TigerShe loved the feeling. The pain of calculatingly destroying one's own body; the friction of the needle, the slight pinch, the slide of cold metal just beneath the skin. And damn, it looked bad-ass."I love it," she cooed in the mirror, big, coal-framed eyes darting to the smirk on the guy's lips. She wondered how many times he'd done this, and in how many places? For how many women? For how many men? It didn't seem like guys would be as much of a common denonenator.She brushed the fresh wounds with her manicured fingertips, admiring the sterling silver studs against her porcelain skin. All four of them glistened under the garish fluorescent lights."Glad you're pleased." His tone spoke volumes, but she did not care. She craved more danger; tonight, in celebration, she would throw herself in the direct path of indiscretion. Hiking her black tank up enough to display her newest trophies, she left with a renewed vigor in the heels of her gold stilettos.Men and women stopped on the stree