Half malt drunk on moonlit mezcal
I drive forty miles north to your door
even though I shouldn’t. There is so much guilt
laced in the slow-motion bloom of your smirk
when you feel me
slither in beneath you and lock myself
down. Between me and the bear of your body
there is ample room for the sweaty burden
of shame to writhe it’s way up my chest
and pry into my pores.
When I wrap myself
around you, I pluck the last strand
of my pride and leave it
underneath the sheets to burn.
This is a poem I’ve been working on. I am thinking of switching it over to prose, but we shall see. Thanks for reading!