Like a squiggle in your eye; blink, and I'm gone because I am all lipstick smudges left under carefully-pressed lapels, or Sharpied innuendos scrawled on bathroom walls in dingy bars. A souvenir from one ephemeral moment, a fleeting tryst of dispassion (from my side at least); before I am scrubbed bare and raw.
DON'T YOU TOUCH ME, for I am so tender. Thrown into the wash; you can clean me, but the stain remains. The scent of sugar, sweat and shame.