Churro

I told myself just one— two, max. But you were hot, sugar-laced, pressed into shape some ancient, grooved machinery I’ve never been strong enough to resist. I knew better. Knew how this ends: oily regret bubbling just beneath the pleasure. Still, I bit down until I was dizzy with want and half-cracked sweetness. Now I’m sick on everything I swallowed pretending it was worth it. And still—I’d do it again if you were warm, and near, and looking.