I used to tell myself that I washed
my mouth out with soap to rinse
out the taste of her tongue on mine,
that scrubbing until the pale skin
swelled red would erase her lips,
her hips, in mine,
that each stroke soaked the memory,
drowning the heartache further
than tear drops ever could,
but those nights were not always for me.
I scoured to hide the sting of my own skin,
and hope that it scalds her soul where
she crawled her way in.