For the man I am with,
who jumps out of the moving car on the way to Sin City,
I show you the inside of a burrito.

Layered with cotton candy,
larger than your thigh,
candle-lit and sparkling,
pumped with Thai tea ice cream,
and three dry toppings that I wish were wet.

I show you the bright lights of Vegas.
This city is corrupt, they say,
and I sit in the convenience of distracting—
corruption with CORRUPTION.
A gold tooth for a Golden Nugget.

I show you the neon signs,
the way the glass milky-swoops and swirls to say Moulin Rouge,
the sky-colored powder inside the Argan Green waving.

I hand you a matchbox from a man
who said his soul was draining out of his asshole,
and tell you to press firmly and swipe right to make a flame.

It was your first matchbox.
You lit it inside,
when you wanted to,
beside the man in the small space
between the two beds with thin sheets.
Oh, how the cleaning chemicals reeked of threat.

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Published 16th July, 2025.