Powder on your skin. Not pretty. Just functional. You learn your face in phone light, angles that sell “I’m fine”. You keep your voice soft, because softness pays faster. Your laugh is a tool you charge by the hour. You don’t call it lying. You call it staying housed. They want warmth on demand. You hand them a replica and keep the original. Succubus! Not horns. Not spells. Just hunger with invoices. Succubus! Truth pays less than comfort. Succubus! You know which words make them lean in, and which silence makes them stay. You let them believe it’s something real, because truth pays less than comfort. You mirror their loneliness back to them, clean and flattering, never too deep. One eye on the exit. Always. If you feel anything at all, It's later, in the sink. They call it choice. You call it rent. Succubus! Not horns. Not spells. Just hunger with invoices. Succubus! Truth pays less than comfort. Succubus! You go quiet. The app stays bright. That’s the arrangement.
