it’s a sin

it’s hot like a shed in the blurry sun
the steering wheel’s been hoarding
ready for your soft skin
you’re so forgetful
but I appreciate the melancholic
of the cache you’ve sown
into your chest
with a pounding fist and
pulpy pulmonary trunk

i like drops of bitters
in my whiskey lemonade
because I think it masks the
taste of alcohol
and I like the taste
but I do not like the taste
not the way I like the sauna
not the way I like being perched
on your lips
and being drowned
in your muck

– sheila c

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