My blood
has turned into Jack Daniels.
Strange men take a ticket
to the three-ring circus.

The room has graffiti-
covered walls
and only one mattress
smelling of cheap perfume and latex.

Your foreign tongue
battles mine.
Lick my wounds,
for I've been torn.

The room is as hot as the space
between your legs,
yet a harsh chill runs up my spine
when your tongue
traces my collar bone.
You grunt
along with every beat
of your overworked heart.