Churro
I told myself just one—
two, max.
But you were hot, sugar-laced,
pressed into shape
some ancient, grooved machinery
I’ve never been strong enough to resist.
I knew better.
Knew how this ends:
oily regret
bubbling just beneath the pleasure.
Still, I bit down
until I was dizzy
with want
and half-cracked sweetness.
Now I’m sick
on everything I swallowed
pretending it was worth it.
And still—I’d do it again
if you were warm,
and near,
and looking.
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