salting my dirty wounds.
Combing through my hair to find
the coin the magician hid next to my ear.
Red wine hangover.
A headache that reaches my muscles,
you’re the last person I would talk to.
I’m weary of you,
but pleasantly relieved that you’re willing to stay.
Sorry for the drink that emptied too fast,
this glass is never empty.
But nothing tastes like a vintage,
Bold. Full bodied, filling my mouth,
Pressure on its roof.
And now you’re cloying,
Syrup runs across my tongue;
Into the apples of my cheeks.
But I’d never spit you out. Mum always said
I had a sweet tooth.