Leaving a trail of kisses from my strawberry stained lips, like bread crumbs through an enchanted forest, I scatter broken and bruised hearts in my wake.
My sharp words are like brambles plucking at their sleeve. Not eager enough to hold tight, but honed to a razor’s edge, ripping and tearing at delicate egos. Scars run deep, even when flesh wounds heal.
A parasite living off my malleable host, our symbiotic relationship lasts only as long as our mutual lust. Winds change, axes shift with the seasons, a hardier host comes into my kill zone, and I disengage. Without warning, without explanation, without regret or sympathy, I slough off these liaisons like so much dead weight.
Now a chameleon, taking on the hues of my surroundings, blending in effortlessly. A camouflage created from the latest styles and fashion. I am a stage actress, playing an ingénue to your Lothario, in a tragedy where the hero dies of a broken heart.
Stepping aside, careful to not soil my shoes, I leave the bloody carnage behind. Slowing only long enough to reapply my strawberry lipstick.