Busted Converse, Built For Worship
These Converse are beyond busted, falling apart at the soles, the sides peeling, the canvas stained with layers of filth. They’re disgusting to anyone else, but to you they’re pure sex. I see the way you stare, desperate for every crack, every stain, every crusted edge of dirt. That tongue of yours wasn’t made for speaking, it was made to drag along the grime of My shoes. You’ll lick until the filth, the spit, the blackened remnants of My day are gone, no matter how foul. You’ll press your mouth to the soles that are breaking apart, savoring every taste of filth, because My Converse deserve nothing less than total worship
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