Plastic Taste / Joji
tumblr user makemylifesweet inspired this.
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let this romance go to waste
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She swallows a rush like love—latex lace and a dragon's embrace.
He hums in her ear, breaths heavy. White sheets and mirror reflections; holographic, a kaleidoscope of colours and wonder.
Baby pink bra, just like honey it reads, print obnoxious.
"Excuse me for my taste," she whispers.
Strawberry soda. Menthol cigarettes. Ash. A spirit.
"Baby, what are you saying?" he moans tiredly, oblivious to the Mimi tab plastered on her tongue.
Dyed pink hair; a prank gone wrong, a phase grown old.
Midnight in Tokyo left them bruised. Midnight in Tokyo left them ruined. Midnight in Tokyo:
Skipping through 7-11, spending stolen money on tacky drinks and anime-plastered snacks. A tired employee. A wink, a kiss to the cheek
fucking in the store room
ripped uniforms and blue booty shorts
glittered collarbones that scream bite me, i'm a flirt.
"I'm deranged," she promised, cheaply-stained lips pressing against sweat-slicked skin.
"We all are," he had told her, and then ripped the lace from her neck.
Now he cradles her lazily, naked.
Polluted air fills their lungs. A balcony door left wide open, traffic hum replacing heart beats.
"I never see you anymore."
"We just met," he reminds (she can hear the roll of his eyes).
"Oh."
God clipped her wings, forced apricot nectar down her throat and watched her choke on death-oaths.
She tells this to her 7-11 boy, and he laughs.
"At least you weren't made to suck Satan's dick."
"But I sucked yours; isn't that close enough?"
"Baby got some bite left, does she?"
Calloused hands wrapped around full hips. Trembling thighs, mouth opened wide, say ahhh babe.
"Let's get married," she says, lost on an ultralight beam.
"Fuck it," he groans, words dirty, "We're married now. Is that how this works?"
She giggles. "No, but it will for us."
Husband and wife trip on pills and boil water for synthetic ramen, eat out of mismatched teacups and recline on their bed, two mattresses piled in the corner.
She tattoos wedding bands on their ring fingers, a simple black line. The ink fades after two weeks.
He brings her a plastic one from work. Stole it from a little girl's princess set. Taped the package back together with electrician's wire, good as new.
The neighbours complain. Calls their love a fucking lead-footed circus. Natsu fills her on the hood of Downstairs Bastard's car.
Let's make a movie, low budget and underrated. Puffing on a loosie, handful of tits and a can of eastern dreams.
Hey there, baby.
What're you up to?
So, how crazy, I found a cat and it's blue.
Can we keep him?
Of course, babe. Anything for my 7-11 boy.
Fake flowers (he thought they were real; she says it's okay.) Lifeless petals won't drop. They make a home in the bathroom for the cheap buds. Lucy spritzes them with one part holy water, one part rose water and two parts vodka.
"It's like, a way of saying fuck you to the universe," she explains drunkenly, "Merry Titsmas by the way, babe. I love you."
It's April. He quirks a grin, pulls her into his lap.
"What am I going to do with you?" he chuckles.
"You can tie me up and store me away in the laundry cupboard. How kinky," she suggests, snuggles into his bare chest. Clothes are not needed at home.
Lo-fi endlessly looped. Cheap Bluetooth speakers, domestic goddess.
Her baby comes home to a sparking apartment—he makes love to her on the unmade bed.
Star shower shopping
soaking in gold
pastel cake-topping
(babe, we'll never grow old).
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excuse me for my plastic taste