Can't you taste it?

I remember the circus.
I won a balloon.
My prize in a bag of peanuts.
The clown with the little white hat.
Red designs.
Red designs.
Remember when red designs were innocent?
Painted on a clowns face.
Pedro.
Come to Pedro's!
Chocolate in red sauce!
But only wine when we eat at home.
White wine.
I crave more.
The sweet smell.
Taste like flower's petals.
Burning, burning.
My brain craves numbness.
My throat craves pain.
What a pure combination.
The yin and the yang.
The up and the down.
Up and down.
Pulsing.
Two lovers on a bed of thorns.
Forget the pain, the blood.
To look into each other's eyes.
To feel each other's skin.
Nerves.
Orgasm and fall.
Where the thorns will have their place.
Their own chance to bite the lovers' flesh.
Pale skin.
Pale like artists' sketchbooks.
Not tan like magazines.
Your eyes.
Bursts of color amidst the pale, the red.
The curse.
Of your eyes.
The pain, the pleasure.
The lovers, the thorns.
The red.
The red designs.
They're not so innocent anymore.