By Katie Ness

Sour, it’s sour

I feel like a warm cigarette

On a cold day.

Dry, insignificant,

Within your violent mouth.

Slow, burning,

I am dust.

Black eyes, mirror distorted.

I could write sonnets and poems about those eyes,

Just a concept,

I am just your concept,

A fucking necessity!

Bitter, it’s bitter.

The ashen taste of you in my heart.