Playing Russian Roulette With Aurora

At times, you are her: Marilyn, the misunderstood and damaged goddess. I fear you will live out her legacy. Bone color of the moon, you are the haunting symphony of cicadas, rhythm of twilight, aroma of dusk. You have pulled the clouds over my eyes, and even your lips tell a lie that is often mistaken for truth. But you are not a thin magnolia petal; you are liberal with your love, given yet undeserved. The unmistakable cocked gun at the temple has become your trademark. Is it wrong of me to be inspired by your lack of discipline, the way you cipher pain and use it to mold your beauty? Oh Aurora, I would never take part in that which drives you; I am not ready for the bullet. Allow me to simply kiss you, razor-tongued.