Your lips are burnt sugar, glazed with vanilla the texture of whipped syrup. Your cheeks are like pieces of silk draped over a crooked wireframe. Your eyes are like pools of stolen moonlight, only they hide rigid daggers beneath them. Your tongue is contracted to a script, only so effortlessly written that my heart dances to its melody almost by reflex. Strings from artery and vein attached like a puppet to its wooden guide, but only if that guide were the connections between your neurons. Sweet is nice but not when it gives you cavities and candy is a treat but not when it comes with a side of poison and vice. Guilty pleasures are none to be worried of, unless you’re sweeping sticky addiction under the rug. Don’t tell me you love me if you roll it in cocaine because I have trouble separating powdered sugar from euphoria dripping with embarrassed regret. Don’t tell me you love me if you hide razors in its cute little wrapping, because I tend to be the gullible type, the ‘trust you with all that I am’ type. Don’t tell me you love me, if you love like a drug addict, because I’m the type to give until my teeth rot and my heart is strained. Till artery and vein are ripped out of place. Till you have all that I am—all that I was—swept beneath your rug.