Roses on pillows in the morning. Stark and conspicuous, bringing soft gasps and whispers of envy. Smile, because it means he cares. More than their men care about them, and it's lucky, yes, so lucky. Their petals are vivid as blood and soft as silk and it's just so beautiful. Put them in water, keep them alive and brilliant, and it will all be fine.
Soft kisses and touches. Cold hands on your hot skin, pressing against a racing pulse. Smiles like a hungry wolf. Frightening and tantalizing all at once. You don't let him see the uncertainty. Keep him smiling, keep him happy, it's a form of life support. Without which, you will wither and die, like roses without water.
Am I the star beneath the stairs?
Skin on skin. Flesh on flesh. Hot. Burning into one another. Melting, melding. Catching the night sky on fire and making the stars shine brighter than ever before, and they burst behind closed eyelids like fireworks as they explode.
And it hurts, god, it hurts. But silence is strength and the whimpers are covered by the moans, because, after all, pain can be pleasure.
The eruption is one-sided, but that's ok. Next time, it will be better. Even though the idea of next time is terrifying, a smile conceals the fear. Hides the tears in your deep brown eyes. Just keep him smiling, keep him loving.
Am I the ghost upon the stage?
The roses are growing less in number, less in frequency. You are becoming afraid because their petals are growing dull and brittle. Add more water, a bigger vase. That's all it takes. Just keep them beautiful, and it will be the way it was before.
Kisses are cold and glances are few and time with him is short. Always busy. You understand, of course, he is a wanted man. Maybe if his touch weren't like steel, it wouldn't hurt so much.
Am I your anything?
The love is mechanical. The only word for it is fucking. No passion, no tenderness. Thrusting and thrusting and moaning and panting and he is growing more bestial every night. It's ok. You close your eyes and pretend it's the same, and the sighs aren't heard anyway.
Slowing breathing. Whispering I love you.
Silence is the only response.
There are no more roses now. Just bruises on pale skin where his hands grip too tightly when he gets carried away. The last one lies on the carpet, surrounded by the shards of a shattered vase and a small dark stain where the water spilled. You don't bother cleaning it up. Let it be a sign. Just as the cracked and faded petals are a sign.
I don't want to die tonight
Alcohol slows the body down. Makes your limbs heavy and steps difficult. It's ok, because you reach your destination anyway.
He is waiting, by the edge of the water. That predatory smile on his face. Watch the smile falter as you walk beyond him.
Will you believe in me tonight?
He watches, silently, as you step into the water and disappear.
Whispers I love you before turning away.