Men are salt of the earth
You're more sweet of heaven-bound
If I get to your core
Would I find a cherry pit?
Or crunch on yet more layers of pulp?
Foolish me, thinking the femme has no depth
Just pure confectionery
My tongue was greeted by the shock of yakult soju on your lips
Greedily I wanted more
My hand dipping by the soft of your hair
The soft of everything
Your voice, your lips and honey-sunk strands
(I should dye mine some time, blue to match the moon to your sun)
Pulled back by the brief inertia our mouths only met due to a round of truth or dare
Do I dare sink further?
Or be swallowed by the truth?
I only wanted to tick off a box in my checklist
A kiss by a girl
Only granted by the kiss of alcohol in our young-bellied systems
The cheering and hollering of our friends for a game
Though her hand splayed on my thigh afterwards
Silently, secretly grasping
Under half crushed cans of coke and half a bottle of bacardi
Fingers stroking, smoothing
Palms softly, sweetly
The tickle of her pastel acrylic nails tapping against my blunt ones
So pure it kills me
While coaxing another friend drenched in her oral regret
I was warned by a stranger the danger of mixing more than two alcohols
Perhaps a better warning would be the mixing of feelings
Of truths and dares
Of cherry pits and cherries with none
Of older men and younger girls
Of whether I wanted this or was just fulfilling a teenage dream
Not too bad I suppose
Certainly better than the salt-slack, sly, slippery, sloppy slips of tongue by men
Thank you, I suppose
For that.
