Crimson Painted Flower

His eyes like moons glowing in the dark room from the reflection of television. Dry, cracked, and callused hands trace and scan her small frame, as if making sure every part of her was there. The thin bladed breath lifting from her lips ascends and slices his face as he eyes fall into her gaze. The rooms air battled between hot and cold, as the strong jawed air-conditioning fought with the pure heat coming from their bodies. Clothes were lost to the floor hours ago, quickly ripped from each their bodies, leaving stitches frayed but their bodies warm against one another. Steam rose from their red tempered passion. Sweat sat at rest atop his lip, he would wipe it away but his hands were busy.

Her once fragile, porcelain skin, now decorated with scattered rose buds, and scratches from his untrimmed nails. A misshapen bite mark laid on her breast, a mark she could not forget the pain of. Her hourglass figure now rattles not from pleasure, but from shivering fear transcending her naked body. The girls sands of time running low.

Though she was never quite a delicate flower in her time, she still could feel her innocence drip out from her eyes to pillow. As he continuously punctures her youth, she lifts her head high and prays to the very God, she swore off years ago. She used to envy and strive to be like all the strong women throughout time; with novels of their strength. But now as her short chapter in history begins writing its own conclusion, she knows no strengths for people to remember.

The two bodies in these muffled thrusts were pure opposites, no rhythm, no connection, like magnets rejecting each others cores. As he bites her chapped, burning lips she knows this is the only pleasure on earth that this so called “man” can enjoy. The only silver lining she feels from this experience is stained in blood from the flow of crimson streaming down her once soft neck. Eyes dart back and forth from the dark empty room to a bright light, bringing her close to the end.

He bears down and feels the human craft of pleasure all over his aged body. He stands and looks at the broken figure on the bed. Her now tainted skin, becoming cold to the touch. The embrace of the frigid air greets her body; her soul trying to figure which way is up as it rises from her heart. As he puts on his wrinkled, stained, and now torn clothing he looks once again into her mostly lifeless gaze. He concentrates on the fear in her eyes and whispers, “thank-you honey, you have made your father very happy.”