Pink Scrape

This dry throat, a desert road.

Three days now, and the air

feels like sandpaper.

So I found it, tucked in the back

of the cabinet, lurid pink

and smelling faintly of

childhood’s chemical kiss.

That syrup. It coated my tongue,

a slick, fake fruit film,

a promise of healing

that tasted like regret.

I swigged it fast,

trying to outrun the cloying.

But it lingered, a ghost

on my palate, a pink scrape.

Still here. Like it always was.