she is a sour person. soiled memories fill her mind as those cracked fingertips fill her throat, pushing deeper, probing for life. sparks against her hips as he appears behind her, laughing at her repulse. he pulls the dirty brown hair out of her face, watching with fascination as the bile grows thicker in her throat. he can feel it with his fingers; long and lean, like a pianist's. the two of them wrote stories once, bodies tangling in a web of words and meanings,  silenced emotions hiding beneath characters and stories, the people they wished they were. he told her she had barbed wire eyes; the initial sting of a glance followed by a rush of endorphins. pleasure and pain, entangled beneath the surface of everything she would ever be.

she told him he was hers. they shared coffee kisses and sleepless nights, matching purple stains beneath their eyes, that blossomed like poisonous flowers, seeping and spreading greedily through their ravished bodies. she wore his jeans and his hat, he wore her perfume and her kisses like a trophy.

they were as real to each other as the characters they wrote about.