Drink up

His arms are wound around my throat like a winter scarf.
Abrasive as coarse wool, bits of him try to sneak through
my lips like stray fibers. Mouth not built to barricade,
eventually cheeks are filled to roundness – two small
plums, and a snakeskin teasing my tonsils.
The next morning there are thumbprints where evidence
is not collected. All I can find of him are the pieces
caught between my teeth.

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