i still taste you on my tongue
that vicious flavor of pleasedon'tcallme and
i just don't want you, someone (anyone) else would do
still, you're n i b b l i n g your way across my
throat and trailing the sour smell of make-believe into
my hair – Neverland never looked so good except when it was
a few thousand miles farther away

one more cigarette to (wash away my) taste –
another mistake lingering on your tongue
you've gotten what you wanted and i've
paid the price. right after, you told me i need
better clothing; the slutwhoreworthless sign shows
like body fluids under a blacklight through my jeans

never quite enough, you whisper, and lick your lips
good enough to borrow, read, and throw carelessly
back on the shelf, s m e a r e d with dirtyfumblinggroping
(hands) fingerprints, but
buying's something else
the gilded volumes locked in glass attest to that

i used to think that special actually had meaning
naïveté buried under barbed wire and razor knives
choking on the dishonesty you fe(e)d me. it used to taste
like honey, with just a hint of wicked sin

disillusion taints the flavor, dripping its
i'vehadenoughs across your thighs before you're ready
a different shampoo drifting across your nose and
that strange tickle of dissatisfaction when you know i've

i don't need this (you)
one of us is just not good enough

Valentine's Day bitterness at its best.