He kicked the door open glaring at
my flaunted smug.
“Here,” he hissed, slapping
a plate of secrets onto the table and
demanded that if I was so damn starved,
stop staring at him and eat it already.
I licked each one
snaking my tongue through
foreign, sandy peach chap stick,
oily, wormy morals,
vinegary dried blood,
briny, charred aspirations
spewing it back onto the plate.
— Jessica McAfee