poetry iv: thot confessions

viii. irish spring

irish spring. 

june 26, 2017.

12:44 am.

i still remember the smells...

and the soul-sucking aroma of that 

sweatshirt you left behind so many times.

irish-spring, is that what they called it?

it was nearing winter when you wore it so heavily.

and the smell of garlic on your breath,

but i let you kiss me,

because there was nothing to be said.

then there was that last night,

and i made you brush your teeth;

but you said that i smelled like cigarettes

and i shrugged and said 'too bad'.

you kissed me anyways.

i never loved you -

barely even liked.

yet we went by-and-by,

not so carefully 

into that dark night.

you walked funny,

but i never told you that.

you made me feel weak,

and you knew that. 

but i was just too hung up 

on the smells

of benefit gone bad.