mate i’m not a drive-thru

whenever i kiss a guy i hurt him
not sure why;
i guess out of habit i have to bite his lip, graze him
it’s not about leaving a mark
but a guy needs a receipt, right?
i’m fast food, take-out, noodles on a tuesday
and the sauce is all over your dashboard
i’m a drive-thru
i’m a napkin to take on home
i don’t like to be eaten.
you can’t idealise mass-produced, processed crap like me
when you just stuff it in the cheeks of your stomach and say,
‘i ate it’
oh yeah you fucked that up like
the way you fist bump god on the street
n invite him round to watch the city v. utd match
with your chicken legends dripping down your faces.
you guys meet every sunday.
not in the chapel at 9 am,
but on your bedroom floor whenever he rings your doorbell
with pages from the holy bible for plates.
and he’ll tell ya
“mate she’s not a fucking drive-thru”
and you’ll say to yourself you wish you never brought this up “i never said she was”
but she so was.
she was the please-enter-your-chip-and-pin
and she was the sweaty package handed to your arms
over the sleeve of your car.
so whenever i kiss a guy i hurt him
like hot food.
not sure why;
out of habit i’ve become a bit of a meal,
a moment on the lips, y’know.
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