her fingers up inside of me licked my ego like a flame,
my well-rehearsed ghost moans and arches
teach me that i am a piece of performance art.
the cracking open of a can, the lick of the lips,
liquor and *****: age-old remedies for **** near anything.
lingering hands post-******
are swiftly denied, refusing any feelings she may want to manifest.
i still can't look in my lovers' eyes
and my hands don't stop shaking until that liquid
that tastes like battery acid flows like honey down my throat.