you drank through a straw
dipped deep into your pink, plastic tumbler.
straws were for kids, I had thought,
till one day
I reached-
while you were in the restroom-
for the glistening gold
whiskey.
I watched it slosh near the edge
splashing
brilliant!
-all but for the stench-
near my nose
onto my lip.
Shock, spit, sputter.
The burn swept rapid hands
through my gut as I shuttered,
ache pressing hot tears to surface,
then stream their tiny
trails
of incriminating saltiness.
