"A Huge Body Count"

Sex fiend trapped in a bottle yells, give me one chance to make a difference, all I need are pants around ankles and a tree to lean against.
Satiate bent toes and staccato groans, the first time you don’t come home and no one goes looking for you.
Fourhundredandsixtytwo bees regurgitated in my Oregano tea this morning, and I just want to know, how do you like your brown-eyed girl now, Mr. Death? And I just want to know, why did he vomit?
Brown bottles don't break against the edge of the table, never make a weapon worthy of quick thrusts and quicker deaths.
Hanging off your moustache, my neck is longer by the second. I’ll reach the tallest fruit in your tree and pluck it with my mouth.
He had a box of vulvae, none which kept their charm. And over time, he lost his mind and caused himself some harm.
It isn’t as scandalous as she made it out to be, the sudden gasp, the loss of breath, and waiting there to see, if my eyes would show guilt or intrigue with my crime, the ultimate invader, stealing other’s time.
It was good to know that cockiness will almost always lead to punishment. The strutting proud, the highbrow few, who waste and squander life, with wrinkles and disinterest meet a lonely time of strife.
So she cut it short, a skull, a face, chap lips and oily skin, another night with bottle friends and no conversation. She crossed her legs and bowed her head and took to counting freckles. Within each spot, another star, a part of constellations and she a universe to behold, in the lead paint tent she paced in.