Re: In the woods, near a path
Don't romanticize death's kiss, Romeo. It wasn't anywhere near as sweet as Shakespeare made it out to be, and our girl had no desire to be mourned. Spend your love when she's above ground because there's no point in saving it for when she's six feet under. Maybe Little Miss Muffet's creepy crawly liked the sweet smell of decaying flowers, but the girl with scary in her pocket could do without. That wasn't her favorite fairy tale, Prince Charming, so let's leave the maggots out of it. Mourning was only pretty if you weren't the one rotting, and she wanted to be wanted while her flesh was soft and unmarred. He could mourn her when she walked away, and wouldn't that be just as pretty?
For all her sturm und drang, the baring of teeth was new. That's our secret, and don't let the leather bad boy know. But it explained her momentary lapse of oh-so-cool. Little Bo stared, sheep relegated to another lifetime and replaced by that red hood she refused to wear for him. He might not get the girl in the morning, but she'd go back to being that wallflower that no one plucked. Tonight was another flick, and she was in the middle of a double feature that featured her. Forget that wallflower girl, Big Bad. She was here instead. "You could throw pebbles at my window," she agreed, the sweetheart in pink with sin in the slip of pink tongue against bait lips. She didn't want to be treated delicately. She wanted him on his knees, crawling after her. She wanted to watch him want. She wanted to memorize that look on someone's face. She wanted it to be hers. Tonight and in this copse of wood, there wasn't anyone sharing the starlight with her. He whispered against her ear, and she sighed sins on the night. "You could slip letters under my door. Fuck poems. They're too short, and I deserve more than a haiku. Keep your red wheelbarrow, Romeo. I want an opus." The laugh that escaped her was crafted from the jealousy that birthed red apples which pretty princesses bit into unknowingly. "Who said I want him dead?"
Little Bo, her sheep nowhere to be seen, rocked her hips against the wood of the tree trunk. Her hands were behind her ass, and she didn't crook her finger this time. "You can tell me how badly you want to kiss me," she declared from her sacrosanct throne. This was how queens lost their heads, and bring the axe, Culpepper. "You can dance with me. You can hold me close, and you can breathe me in. You can want to fuck me so badly that you think you'll die from it." This was a one-time-thing, and Little Bo was milking that cow for all it was worth.