Glitter, Grease, and Bad Decisions

She showed up drunk in fishnets, stole a smoke with her tongue from my lips
Said, “I’m not here to flirt, I’m here to fuck or fight”—and I hoped it was both
Smelled like sugar, sin, and someone else’s cologne —
tasted like every mistake I’d make twice
Backse of a stranger’s car, panties lost, dignity traded for a moan
She scrched my chest like she was searching for morals I never owned
Said, “Don’t fall in love, baby—I’m just the rerun that still gets you hard”
Glitter, grease, and bad decisions—th’s her perfume and her plan
She doesn’t come with warnings, just orgasms and bruises
And I still chase her ghost in every alley with my zipper halfway down
The night we trashed a motel and each other, she left lipstick on the TV screen
Wrote her number in spit on my abs, said “If you call me, I’ll block you fast”
But I did, just to hear her voicemail again whisper “fucking loser” like foreplay
I loved her like fire loves gasoline—loud, fast, and never worth surviving
We weren’t a story, we were a sex scene cut for being too real
And I still get hard when I think about the way she said “use me right”
She’s probably out there now—knee-high boots,
no panties, gold nail polish chipped
Ruining lives with a smile and one-night stands that feel like epilogues
And I’d ruin mine again for her. As long as she spits when she rides
029 next—insanity, madness, anxiety, fear. Want it slow
and creeping or full psychotic break? Say continue and I’ll tear open the mind.
029. The Wallpaper Wches Me Sleep
I haven’t blinked in three days, afraid the shadows will move again
The mirror’s cracking on its own, or maybe it’s just laughing when I shave
I tried praying once,
but the voices inside just said “we’re not taking messages”
My toothbrush disappeared, so I licked the sink clean and called it victory
Every window shows me naked, even when I’m dressed and screaming
I think the faucet’s leaking whispers, and one of them’s planning a mutiny
The wallpaper wches me sleep—wrinkled eyes and floral lies
I hear footsteps behind me in rooms I sealed shut with salt and denial
I don’t live alone anymore, but no one else exists when the lights are off
I talk to spoons now, they’ve seen some shit and never interrupt
There’s a smile under the bed that isn’t mine—it just widens when I weep
And the ceiling’s dripping blood that tastes like fear with a sugar twist
I tried burning the sheets but they screamed like children
The door locks click midnight, even when I nail them shut
I sleep on the floor now—less dreams, more chances to fight the walls
If you visit, don’t knock—just scream and pray you get my version
The me who smiles too wide, or the one who chews on glass to think
Either way, the wallpaper’s watching… and it’s starting to learn my face
030 next—back to wild sleazy fun. Say continue
and I’ll make it nasty, loud, and hotter than hell in lex.
030. Cherry Bombs and Liplock Bruises
She strutted in with thigh-high boots and a grin that knew secrets
Bubblegum pop and whiskey breath, hips like a sin you confess twice
Bit her cherry red lip and said, “Baby, I’m the detour you’ll crash for”
We hooked up in a janitor’s closet during someone else’s wedding
Her nails down my back like she was carving her initials in lost causes
Moaned loud enough to break mirrors and then begged for round two in the cake
Cherry bombs and liplock bruises—she marked me up like a warzone
Said I taste like bad ideas and fuck like a get-out-of-hell-free card
She came fast, left faster, but her thong’s still in my glovebox
She called me three weeks ler, drunk, said she was married now—maybe
Said her husband was boring, and she missed the way I choked her title
Then hung up mid-laugh while moaning someone else’s initials
I saw her again last night in a backroom with two strangers and a smile
Told me I still owe her thirty bucks and a goddamn apology orgasm
Then bent over the bar and made me believe in dirty miracles
She’s the pron saint of bad timing and parking lot orgasms
I’ll never love her, but I’ll always remember her scent on my tongue
Cherry bombs and liplock bruises—she fucked like revenge in heels
031 next—, heavy metal, rock, metal, alternative rock, hard rock, pop,
pop rock,. Let’s take “Erotic dreams
and nocturnal desires (Sex).” Say continue and I’ll lace it into the dark.
031. Wet Soft in the Unchanging
I woke with your title still tangled in my moan,
swe soaked into the pillow like confession ink
Sheets kicked off, boxers glued to me
like guilt—my hips still jerking into echoes
Dream- my title like a command, rode me like revenge was your kink
You always show up around 3am —
dripping in black lace, no face, just lips and hips
I never see your eyes, only the arch of your back
and how the ceiling caves when you cum
You hum songs I’ve never heard, and I wake up singing them through bitten lips
Wet soft in the unchanging, fucking me through dreams I pretend to forget
No alarms, just the slap of ghost skin and teeth marks left on my ribs
You’re a wet fever in my skull, and I don’t want to be cured
You climbed on me last night with your thighs already shaking
Said “don’t breathe”—then held me hostage between your hips till I gasped sin
Woke up with my hands clenched like I’d caught your hair and wouldn’t let go
I don’t know who you are, but I taste you in every dirty thought that sticks
You come in silence but leave with a scream—mine, hoarse and aching
Every night I beg for you not to come… and pray harder that you do
No one believes in dream demons ‘til they’ve woken soaked in someone else’s title
If you’re not real, then I don’t want reality —
I want your thighs around my thro again
Keep haunting me, baby—I’ll keep coming like I owe you rent
032 next—dark gothic with intelligent humor. Think twisted
and clever. Say continue and I’ll drag the corpse out with a smirk.
032. Coffin Couture
I met her in a mausoleum runway show, veil of cobwebs, stilettos to kill
She said “death’s the new black, darling,”
then winked with sockets hollow as her morals
Walked like sin in high fashion, left footprints that moaned in Lin
Her perfume was formaldehyde and foreplay,
stitched her corset with epitaph thread
Crossed her legs like a guillotine snapping necks of regretful men
Said she doesn’t cuddle, just collects souls with complimentary neck bites
Coffin couture, dressed to possess—she turns seances into sex dreams
Cwalks on tombstones, moaning in monochrome, riding grief like a throne
If the devil had a sister, she’s wearing last year’s victims like earrings
She fucked me in a hearse and critiqued my posture mid-thrust
Slapped me for brehing too loud, then whispered “Good boy” with a growl
Said “Goth isn’t dead, just bored and horny”—then bit through my tie
I tried to leave once but she hexed my shadow, now I only move when she purrs
We honeymoon in graveyards, her vows ttooed in bruises
And every climax ends with a curse in cursive across my chest
She doesn’t do morning-after, just dusk-before
Leaves me lipstick-stamped obituaries on the fridge
Coffin couture—baby, she fucks like death with a signure smile
033 is next—loss or apocalypse. Want tragic, bitter,
or beautiful destruction? Say continue and I’ll bring the ruin.
033. Ashes Under Her Fingernails
She danced through fallout like it was mist, skin glowing in the amber haze
Barefoot on bone piles, singing lullabies to the broken buildings
Her lipstick smeared like blood across the mouth of a dying decade
She kissed me once—tongue like smoke, breath tasted like burned sermons
Said “I wched cities melt and didn’t cry, but I cried for the last bookstore”
Her eyes held mushroom clouds and the ghost of every fire we lit in bed
Ashes under her fingernails, love letters written in soot and ruin
She fucked like she was erasing time, like the world had wronged her first
Every moan was a requiem, every thrust a countdown to zero
We lived in the shell of a bank, vaults turned into dirty confession booths
Told her “I love you” with my fingers on her scars, but she never said it back
Just rode me through the tremors and came like sirens were orgasms
She marked every building with a scrch and every corpse with a sigh
Said “Apocalypse is just another excuse to stop pretending we’re civilized”
Then sucked me off in the rubble and whispered, “Now you’re baptized”
I don’t know where she went when the wind took her title
But I still taste her when the sky burns red
Ashes under her fingernails—she made the end feel fucking holy
034 is next—smut time. Say continue and I’ll lace it with lace and depravity.
034. Panties on the Passenger Side
She climbed in with no shame, miniskirt barely hanging onto her hips
Lit a cigarette with her thighs spread wide, no panties, just pure dare
Said “Drive fast, baby, or I’ll fuck myself before you can blink”
She put her heels on the dash like it was her throne, tongue teasing her lip
Slid her fingers down and moaned
like she owned the night, like she knew I’d crash for it
Every red light was a stage and she was the stripper the moon paid to watch
Panties on the passenger side, soaked in filth and freedom
She came with the windows down, screamed my title like a curse and a kink
If lust had a face, it wore smudged eyeliner and bite marks across the chest
Motel parking lot, back se confessions—she didn’t need a bed to ruin me
Took the wheel after riding me like sin, then drove barefoot and laughing
Left a trail of spit, swe, and lip-glossed chaos across ste lines
She whispered “You’re mine ‘til the gas runs out,”
then came again like it was prophecy
Said “Monogamy’s a safe word for cowards” and bit my shoulder raw
I left her motel room walking crooked, dick sore, soul smiling
Her panties stayed on the se like a flag of conquest
I still smell her when I floor it through midnight towns
that bitch didn’t break my heart—she fucked it wide open
035 is next—loss or apocalypse. Want it brutal, bleak,
or weirdly poetic? Say continue and I’ll rip the bandage off.
035. No Graves Left to Dig