Without you, I drank too much tequila. Found a stranger.
Licked the nape of his neck. The taste was acrid; unfamiliar.
Took him to my apartment. Let him inhabit me. His fingers
reached for my horizon and the sheets swallowed us.
In the morning light, traffic moved and clocks ticked.
He left and I cleaned the sheets. The city moved onward.
My mouth was dry as sandpaper. Stomach queasy.
Disenchanted, I decanted the tequila. One swig.
Fire burned in my belly. I poured every drop
down the drain. Kept the limes to suck on.
by Michelle Donfrio
About the Author
Michelle Donfrio received her Masters in Writing and Publishing from DePaul University. Her work has been published in various literary journals including Poydras Review, Nonbinary Review, and the Silver Birch Press Great Gatsby Anthology. She works as a Communications Specialist and as a writing teacher at Republic of Letters bookstore.