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Aug 2014
Inhale the steam.
It burns your lips, their puckered vulnerability the perfect victim. Their innocence is lost and it shows; from soft and pink to swollen and red - any chance you had of concealment immediately vanishes.
Inhale again.
It stings the back of your throat, floats down to your lungs to mingle with the poison lingering there.
Take a sip.
Just a sip. Nothing more. You can't handle more anyway. It scalds your tongue and you swallow quickly. Your mouth fills with the metallic tang of blood. You'll still feel the evidence of the drink as you walk home, smacking your lips in vain attempts to sooth them.
You settle for warming your hands on the outside of the mug, letting it's warmth seep into you, defrosting your blue fingertips.
Here the heat is comforting, welcome.
Any closer and it's menacing.
this isn't a poem, I can't write poetry
Aisling
Written by
Aisling  Ireland
(Ireland)   
264
   Juneau
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