The Taste Of You

I am frantically brushing my teeth at 3 in the morning trying to get the taste of your tongue out of my mouth, but I can only go so far before my gums begin to bleed and my teeth start to ache the way my spine often does under the heavy, heavy weight of your hands. You liked to place them on my back. My mother is sitting in the stairway, staring at the dim white light escaping from under the bathroom door, she’s going to ask me. Why?

I cannot tell her that I have been kissing boys under deep red candy skies and empty parking lots outside of malls I’ve never been to. I cannot tell her that he always tastes of tobacco I don’t really mind, he drinks too much sometimes but he always asks before the slightest of touch, I end up saying yes and then I close my eyes to the rhythm of his fingertips drumming against my neck as his lips fall in line with mine, poetry in his eyes, tongues clashing in forgotten time and hearts that drip with desire yet to be satisfied.

I cannot tell her that I might be infatuated with him beyond my liking. More than I’d ever admit. Some nights he meets me with unrefined bruises decorated across his knuckles, painful lilac pressed against his skin. I cannot tell him that I would very much like something more than hidden kisses and stolen fiery glances. I cannot tell him that I would like a chance at “us” whatever that may be. Because I fear he might leave, if I tell him what my heart so often screams. -H