the sickly-sweet smell of liqueur on your lips...just a taste, that’s
all i want
but don’t say i didn’t warn you
can’t you see the knives in my mouth when i smile too wide?
haven’t you noticed the blood between my teeth?
can’t you see how you’re tearing up my insides?
you show me where your parents hide the alcohol, deft fingers
grasping glass in the darkness. you pull out something golden-
brown and swear tequila will get us blackout drunk.
i can’t stand the stuff, but i’d down a whole bottle just for you.
“i’ll make you something better,” i say,
and i bite down a little too hard when you reply: “my own personal bartender, huh?”
whiskey, vermouth, and a little maraschino and i’ve got you under my thumb.
(i’m partial to anisette, myself...what can i say? it reminds me of you.)

An`i*sette" (#), n. [F.]

A French cordial or liqueur flavored with anise seeds.

De Colange.


© Webster 1913.

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