Cocaine

Please don’t do coke in the bathroom.

The neon hum dampens the rising breath as black pendant lights cast a watchful gaze to the thighs with the broken hinge.

Familiar hands on an unfamiliar face.  My lips press against the mirror but he won’t look at me in the eyes.

The cold stone of the bench a far cry from carpet burn on knees, yet my legs keep asking me how much wider they should go?

One day they’ll teach me of serpent tongues and street cars with names and ways to resist the warm liquid of a man.

Ssh – a familiar hand slides across my mouth.

Please don’t do coke in the bathroom.  

That’s what the living room is for.