Dinner

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
before
spewing it back onto the plate.

Jessica McAfee

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