White Roses in a Red String Noose

I breathe a ragged exhale that I hope she doesn’t hear. I don’t want her to see my vulnerability, caused by her. It feels so good to dance, just to dance, and hold her in my arms while swaying softly to the music. Her hair is soft as I nudge my head into her neck and she smells faintly of lilacs; So beautiful, utterly beautiful, like a fucking oasis in the middle of the bloody Sahara; A life source that I cling to, pathetically but desperately with my arms wrapped tight around her neck to feel her warm skin beneath my face.
Her arms are resting lightly around my hips, with her right hand at the small of my back and her left a little higher, caressing my spine and running her long fingers over each vertebra. I wish she’d never let me go, but wishing’s not going to stop the inevitable, and when the time comes and she’s had enough of my insecurities, she’ll leave. She’ll leave me and my insecurities with a new one wrapped in spoiled newspaper that she left me on the mantelpiece. There’s a red string around it that’s been tied in a bow. Do you want to know what I did with it? I used it to make a noose that I put around the white roses I sent her. White roses splattered and tinged with my blood. I thought it was very Van Gogh. I might need my ears but I can certainly spare a pint or two of blood.
I consider myself rather practical in matters of the flesh. My body is just a vessel. But for my brain to function, and for me to be, I need to provide my body with the basics: food, water, sexual gratification. Yes, that’s right Miggins, the usual for me today. Not eggs, not toast, not even coffee, just a feeling of pleasure. Pleasure in the fact that someone wants me. They might not want ME me, but they want the me that is my body, my vessel. They want what I can give them, and maybe if I’m especially lucky, they’ll give as well as take. If lady luck is really on my side maybe they’ll take me gently, and leave in the morning with an embrace instead of leaving in the dark with my sleeping form naked and under the covers.
I have realized since, that it’s grown cold and the cotton sheets no longer feel safe and secure, but rather damp and lifeless. Almost like a shroud, except bad news I’m not dead yet.