❝ the soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts ❞
in which colours speak of their stories without saying their names
the anger radiating off your body as your stormed out of the house and into the pouring rain
the newly purchased tight dress barely covering your chest and thighs as your burst into the club, your hair still limp and soggy from the downpour outside
the lights on the dance floor flashing to the beat of the loud electronic music
your martini with a small cherry fitted on the rim of the glass to make the drink look more appealing and less harmless — the purest form of sin
the burning sensation in your throat that seemed to engulf your own body as you gulped down tequila shots of fiery passion
the immediate attraction towards him when you laid eyes on him, just like a moth entranced by an open flame
the mixture of danger and thrill as he approached you step by step
the warning bells that resounded in your already pounding head yet you still bit your lip to pull him in
the warmth you felt when he wrapped his arms around your waist
even though his proximity gave you chills, his whisper in your ear ignited a strong want for him
desperate kisses as you both stumbled up the stairs, trying to keep balance while trying to maintain the tension
fiery passion mixed with loud profanities filled the silence of the dark room, illuminated only by a sliver of moonlight that peeped through the thick curtains
the euphoria you felt when he entered you — how it was so much better than any alcohol you had ever downed, as you believed you were both deeply in love for that night
the comfort mixed with caution that overcame you when you were pressed up against his chest with his arms safely around you, him assuring you that he would see you in the morning
the frustration you felt as you gripped your hair and screamed when you realised that the other half of the bed was gone, and the sun had not yet risen
but you felt hopeful again, when you looked at the bedside table and saw his number scribbled on a piece of scrap paper
the excitement coursing through your veins as you entered his world, and he, yours, during your midnight escapades — it was the best time for you because he made you forget who you were
the tinted lenses you wore whenever you looked up at him adoringly, never wondering why he had not brought you out in public
the blood that dripped slowly from your lines on your thighs as you berated yourself for feeling so dirty, so used; for retreating back into this vicious cycle despite having known that even though he was your world, you were never even a part of his
the indignation, embarrassment and fury you felt when you saw the large ruby on a woman’s finger — and from the way he slung his arm over her shoulders, you knew that the ring would have been yours
your heart on the floor when it finally hit you that he was taken — not that he was ever yours to begin with
sea of fools 