Do you know what heartbreak tastes like?

I doubt you do.

You collect hearts like trophies. Frame them over your bedroom door-for everyone who has entered and inevitably left. And you don't care much for competing. Or even winning, for that matter. But you love your trophies.

You collect hearts like trophies, and you pride yourself on never losing yours.

So I doubt you know what heartbreak tastes like. Because in order to feel that sort of pain you need to feel that sort of love

So let me tell you.

It tastes like your name.

I just can't get myself to stop saying it.

It tastes like the bitter after notes of the drink you thought would be sweet.

It tastes like salt-from choking back tears and biting down on your lip so hard you can taste the metallic red.

But most of all it tastes like your name.

Oh because even as you killed me you were so beautiful.

He takes her to meet some friends;

Monet, Renoir, Degas, Picasso, Warhol

They look on as she turns to bury

her face in the crook of his neck

She breathes him in

as history exhales its echoes

through the Ivy League halls

There are some nights that I am apple pie.

Wholesome. Sweet. All-American. The perfect pearl clad housewife.

I'll cook your dinner. Rub your feet. Scratch your back. Fix your drink.

I'll be your wife.

Some nights though, I am whipped, creamy skin.

Depraved. Wet. Begging. The sluttiest little whore.

I'll suck your cock. Kneel at your feet. Scratch your back. Ride you hard.

I'll be your good girl.

I am both. And both parts of me are yours.