our little sins

who keeps the bottle
held tightly like we do
in balled up fights
not sure if we’re ready for a fight
or we’re just terrified of letting go

I don’t care for the taste
I guess I never really have
but you drink like it’s a sweet nectar
instead of poison that I drink to numb
every feeling in my chest

your arm’s laid across my naked stomach
and I’m trying to see your face
but you’ve turned your head away
and the only thing I see is your naked body
suckling at the teat of the devil who is the bottle

I take it when it’s offered
and I lick my lips and drink as much as my burned throat can take
then I feel your tongue lap at a drop
that slipped from my lips to my neck
and drinking isn’t the only sin we share

our passion has dissolved into disgust
and I don’t see you anymore, only your shell
and if this were a race,
who’s winning
and where exactly is the finish line?


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