You Can’t Hold Me.

I would melt as chocolate,
running under the covers, leaving
an umber stain on your sheets. I’m a
marshmallow. I expand with heat. You could

lick me off, as frosting on a spoon. I’d be
a mouthful of mocha and orange too. You could
peel me as a banana, get to the fleshly part,
discarding my stringy covering, seeing

how easily I bruise. You could drink me,
after you pop my cork, get inebriated on the
licorice and fall into a coma that you might
not come out of. Poor you