I imagine your sweat tastes like a salty-sweet paradise just bitter enough to disguise the poison.
That film of deceit across your body, perfectly polishing your privileged veneer, I try not to, but I want to lick it off.
I didn’t notice it before –
The want I have, to lap the salty-sweet poison off your naval’s peachy white
Taste, the sweat droplets as they escape your pours and slither across the opaque white scales of underbelly you call skin.
I beg indulge in the life quenching waters between your thighs.
I’m a starving cat and you’re my sour milk.
I will slurp you from the curvature on your stomach.
So when I’m done, your unclean fills me.
I need to know what it feels like to be full on you.
So I never look back in wonder.
So I never again feel tempted to let myself indulge the addiction.
Never let myself believe tasting you could somehow be good.
Never forget your toxicity, though intoxicating, never stopped being toxic.
I didn’t notice it before, but the cream between your thighs spells deceit.
And I just want a taste.
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