the first

time I taste it is on the subway going southbound to Osgoode Station,

red as sweet and sour sauce, incandescent and pure.
You hold it to my

lips and watch as I inhale its bitter air.
The last time is one hour ago,
when you push me to my knees and force

it down my throat.
It tastes like cotton.
You look at me with eyes like a disapproving parent
and I scrape away to its core.
I feel

the acid slide down my throat as you shove me
over the couch and watch me writhe.
Your serpent.
I wear the same blue and yellow dress as the subway ride.
It gathers at my hips now,
as I clutch at my throat
and look at my prince.