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.