You love to see those smiling faces. Don't you? But no, today I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about myself. I love the faces that don't smile. Straight faces.
You know the faces that look as if a tanned beige slightly burnt piece of material was stretched over a convoluted nihilist piece of art that someone tried to tie carefully making folds at the lips. But the art was too much to be covered, it kept bulging out, and the creator decided to leave it with the ugly pout.
I like faces who do not try to justify their pouts. They slightly part their chapping, ugly cracking lips making their silent faces so verbose.
You know what these faces do? They look at you and make you believe in the imperfections that they carry, in how they can't eat when they are sitting on someone's right, how they can't curse, how they peel the bruises even if it hurts, how they look at those beautiful bulges of men and women and are capable of revisiting these short glances anytime - helps them escape the society's definition of creeps - more power to their imagination.
And you know what, they look at you with their screaming eyes, making you listen to every decibel they never uttered.
What when these faces move their hands and pull you by your shirts and push a kiss on your much innocent lips? What when they pull and chew your innocence and imbibe the moisture of your lips in theirs and become luscious? What when they steal a part of you to make their stories real?
What when they look at you with their unheard voices and suddenly leave with no intention of saving you from what they just said?
Yes. This is how they let you choke. They fuck you and fall on your chest with a soft heavy thud, lie there - waiting for the clocks to tick again, get up and leave without looking back at you.