Two puffs for the lady who be down for that
Whatever, together
Bring your whole stash of the greatest
Trade it, roll it up, burn it up, cough it up, taste it
And then watch us chase it
With a handful of pills
No chasers
Jaw clenching on some super-sized papers
She bad and her head bad, escaping, van is a wonderland
And its half-past six
Weed's nice cause time don't exist
It's fully alight, the smoke tumbling into the night as she inhales as deeply as she can.
Her red lips purse around the end lazily, just enough to hold it there, imprinting the white and grey with bloody red and lust. She sucks and sucks until her lungs have reached maximum capacity, and then she holds and waits. The longer she waits the better it is, the better the reward, the better the escape.
When it feels enough, or enough to allow her to exhale normally and not cough like a bitch who's in it for the first time she exhales fully, breathing it out in a cloudy mass of smoke, letting he head fill with airiness and pleasure. It really could do things Rodolphus would only dream of. It was better than life, it was better than inflicting pain.
She leans back haphazardly against the wall and ashes all over her bare legs, spiralling confetti drifting, hot, down to her thighs singeing them, hurting, pain.
Dreams, smoke, time.
Black. Like Bella.
Only she hates Bella, she fucking hates Bella and her fucking joke of a life. She could be so much more, so much more.
The power, oh the fucking power.
She is invincible.
More smoke, spirals, confetti, dust.
Kites.
A single malt would go damn well with this because her throat is dry and lips are parched.
She loved the feeling of time, there was no time, time was in joints and she had four left.
Four. Five. Eighty-Nine. Who the fuck cared.
And she lit up again.
The Weeknd - Glass Table Girls