Literature
2711
You make me ill to my core. It's the way you curl yourself beneith my skin and suck the love and passion from my bloodstream like a sun starved flower. You sit benith the open sky in your flowerpot, adorned with my words. I bathe you in the things you need, but yet you still rob my bones. You betray my trust when I need you most.
Then you dissapear, like some godforsaken ghost into an early morning fog and all you leave behind is dew-drops on the lashes that protect my eyes.
When you kiss, you consume. You burn like a forest fire, searing and violent, across the tips of
... cieszy się dziewczyna. 