The Opiate, Winter Vol. 8
Cocktail Stephanie Macias Biting my tongue is in vogue these days. The taste of blood is a cocktail at the end of grueling times. Hours of smiling and nodding, of being human— no ice please, I take it room-temp then warm it in my mouth to ninety-eight degrees. It is relief, the tiny taste of red staining my teeth pink. The sure gate of my lips concealing my injured tongue where I bit your name off the tip.
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