It’s sweet, but bitter and yet so addicting
that my tongue is at a state of confusion
trying to decide if it’s worth to drink
a substance
that reminds me of virginal memories in a land that took me in the first few years of my life.

Chesapeake, Virginia.

Sitting on the river banks in a laced dress
(my mother sews)
and letting every paranoid reach her mind
(because once you stain a white dress with cranberry juice, it just never goes
away.)

It’s sweet, but sour like a compromise between the odds
A satisfying thrill fills me
as a bloody ocean
with inflaming spurts of the tart taste
quenches my thirst for the time being
until I yearn for more.

(I like to imagine it’s the blood of Christ
in which I’m blessed for a day
so I savor it better
just like I did at five.)

It’s strong, but soothing, so it’s an invitation
to a wine with no liquor
and a world without tragedies
that although I’m still naïve being that age that I am

(fifteen,)

I will always enjoy the sweet, but bitter sensation
of a substance
that my mother gave me everyday in my innocence

To show the sweet, but bitter moments in life.