You are a sweet shame, the scent of a full bottle of champagne foaming out of control onto the carpet and spilling down your guests' chests on New Year's Eve
You are the sudden pop of the cork that scars the girl in gray dress pants who has never so much as sipped on a glass of wine
You are colder than you're meant to be and saturating my bodice, infecting me with sticky goose bumps, as I sing into a broken bottle
You are the taste of one hundred electric sugar bubbles Harlem shaking on my tongue 'til they lose their shoes and get too blitzed to find them
You are the slight stain on my new party dress, gone unnoticed 'til the next morning, when I redress and quietly exit your bedroom
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