Cigarette Burnt Whiskey

This bar smells like cigarette

burnt whiskey with a splash

of Saturday night desperation.

I’m having a hard time wading

through the hormones splashing

against my shore, yet those

green, sea glass eyes of yours are

tempting me to test the water.

There is something about

the hook in your pickup line

that makes me want to get caught.

I feel tiny lust fed goosebumps

pepper my skin with raised flags

of surrender, but my brain

has a Baptist sin book preaching

I haven’t even reached the bottom rung

of Jacob’s ladder from my last backslide.

I don’t know why I’m arguing with myself.

I’ll bookmark hell with a few more

of those guilt shaming sticky notes,

and find out just how far we can swim.

Even if we’re star crossed Shakespeare failures,

it will beat babysitting that wilted bar flower

next to me who keeps bleating about

how her ex didn’t appreciate the amount of

cash it took to keep her in heels.

©Susie Clevenger 2016

Real Toads ~ Bits of Inspiration ~ Amber Rose Tamblyn