This building is too hot.
My body is too hot.
Not hot in the sense of attractiveness.
Hot like a frying pan filled with bubbling oil.
I'm oily too mind you.
Today I have yet to wash my face.
The lipstick over my cracked lips is melting.
Sadly glittering in unwanted places.
YOU ARE READING
The poem shelf
PoetryA small variety of poems written by me since starting college.
