ragdolls without puppet strings

Dear John Smith, allow passage for secrets to your ear from her lips about the time she prickled her nails down your spine and stabbed your neck with cold breath and stagnant sweat, your eyes closed blind to reality: her way of showing no mercy to you playing apart of her rat maze ensnared in trap games. When you stared at her through the mirror, she drew subtle hints, a warning flickering in her eyes to clarify all that she characterized. she creates the atmosphere and leaves you to make emotions, but steam fogged the glass you saw, and glass of wine fogged the memory you conceived in your mind. She never really thought you two saw eye to eye. It took only toxic and booze and an inebriated train of thought to fool yourself into thinking post midnight hours revel only in passionate acts when there wasn't even love to begin with. I know your heart ached when you slipped her the cash for the boss, (man, you're a valued customer!) something like, "this isn't right," vaguely crossed your mind, so you threw a nice tip, hand on her waist and finger to lips, watched as she walked away with your donation and her glaring like, "You think Benjamin could buy me freedom?" Yeah, well, you watched her from your hotel window and sang the blues and boohoos, and man, it sucks to be you from your five star suite, emotions devoid and still tasting the bittersweet left on your lips by the wretched fact that all you have to give and take is green. this moroseness you attach to glass windows, thumbprints smudged, watching tentatively a woman you want to pretend to love hail a cab with yet another man hung ragged and forceful on her tender arm. she knew her worth and threw you some change of thought to spare. her love isn't for sale.