She never did like waking with the sun tracing its spotlight
fingertips over the smudged kiss stains of lust painted on her lips.
And yet she always did when her insecurities craved for alcoholic amusement.
Her body tuned tight to sexual gratification, her mind pulsing as
heavily as the clouded hangover reigning in her conscience.
Guilty pleasures as the dregs at the bottom of the shot glass on the bar,
kaleidscopic vision of drunk release, alley encounters of the perverted kind.
And she always cowered from the truth when it burnt with tequila kisses.
Sober reminiscings always blushed her into shame;crimson figurines.
The faces she couldn't name but still taste on her body an eternity after,
the nicotine in her bloodstream, her night-shadowed highs under
ashen shades of moonlight that would always conceal her perverted side.
No one but her and her cinnamon ecstacies knew her tainted reality.
She'd always scour it away under a molten shower in the morning
just before the night-shift would yawn into closure, before his hands
would claim the places that her intoxication's hand owned before.
It was always a gamble and trade existence; a prostituting housewife.
Her loose ends were bundled into envelopes with "I owe you" carved
in violent, shark-bite formations on the back: I owe you the truth.
Bisexuality was the burden for the weak, the lock to her secrets,
the scent of sex on her skin when she woke in crumpled sheets of loneliness.
She'd only regret the aftermath; the shackled secrecy, the withdrawal
and the cautious distance she'd maintain so he wouldn't taste
the layers of venom truths that embalmed her lips like a contradiction.
"No one but her and her cinnamon ecstacies knew her tainted reality.
She'd always scour it away under a molten shower in the morning
just before the night-shift would yawn into closure, before his hands
would claim the places that her intoxication's hand owned before. "
"No one but her and her cinnamon ecstacies knew her tainted reality.
She'd always scour it away under a molten shower in the morning
just before the night-shift would yawn into closure, before his hands
would claim the places that her intoxication's hand owned before. "