Look up, little loser. The only thing you deserve to worship is the way my red lipstick smears across my lips, knowing you'll never get a taste. Every slow drag of my cigarette is a reminder of what you can't have. My time. My attention. My fur brushing against your worthless face as I laugh at how hard you're straining in those cheap, tight pants. Pathetic. You thought you could handle me? Please. You're just a human ashtray, a speck under my heels while I coat these lips in scarlet arrogance. Watch the way my tongue flicks the tip of my cigarette, teasing you with the burn you wish I'd press into your skin. But no. You get my smoke in your lungs and my lipprint on the lens, smeared like the mess you'd be if I let you touch yourself. Too bad I won't. I'd rather stub this out on your greedy little mouth and walk away, leaving you dripping with shame. Now beg me to stay. Or don't. I don't care either way.