It was always a little too warm and a little too mad, because your sins are too good to be able to compete. It burned without persuasion and it throbbed like ultimate passion. It was blood, it is hell, it is the way that you’re born, and the question you start, but never end, when you die. Nobody felt anything so strongly, because it was pain until it melted and it was morbid existentialism until tomorrow hit the sky. Left alone, it is patriotism and ultimate illusionary motivation. Losing innocence like it is stylish and faking orgasmic pleasure until heavy breathing takes the place of the moans still ricocheting of the walls. The only evidence is left on the sheets, mimicking the questions that they posed to mommy and daddy. It’s all fire engines and flames. It’s all rainbow tops and sunburns. It’s too much to bear without something to lessen the blister.

It’s altogether addictive like nothing else is.