On many indescribable winter nights, girls have left a hundred little tastes inside my mouth without much concern. Now, I can't expect myself to be able describe all the essence any specific girl has stroked throughout my cheeks, but a familiar taste dragged across my tongue last night. The well-known flavor of a hammer or plain, wrought steel was once again stained uncomfortably to my teeth and tongue. My modest fascination with trying to cruelly remove this was inflamed as my mouth began to decay with the common plaque some girl left in my mouth. As a result, gore once again filled my jaws as I tongued away her prideless lilac bitter. My mouth's shallow creases were picked apart as I tried to rid the backwash of a girl that I strive not to remember.
Most times, the pain doesn't bother me. Pain wouldn't bother me, for my intention are for this toxic darling's spit. A mouth ache seems rather appropriate scarring for stealing a commodity from such an unknowing girl. Frankly, I seek this senseless displeasure. For example, a burnt taste came over the walls of my mouth last night as I took from another willful girl that I hope to never adore. This charred taste tends to happen whenever I allow myself time to dishonestly and slowly lick the taste from an unmemorable tongue. I savor these unpleasant scrapings despite their salty, scorched aroma.
This palate is the collection of tastes my lack of dignity is supposed to gather. These rosy girls assume they leave me with a sweet ginger flavor, but I can't taste a hint of such underneath the overwhelming tart spices that they inadvertently and unavoidably satisfy my mouth with. My winter nights are full of many unremarkable girls that I pass by without much thought. I understand that the purposelessness of some odd girl's kiss will undoubtedly leave a mouthful of sour dust. However, I have acquired the taste, and winter doesn't have another taste for me.