Don’t forget to wash your hands

Do you fear your lack of self-control. Your eyes jump from crevice to crevice saliva slips from that numb part of your lips to your work boots covered in the gritty money you earned. She turns and has that virginal-motherhood smile and you feel that sweat collecting behind your neck making your head itch, but you don’t scratch it and you call her

a whore 
a witch
 a slut

NOTHING, because she’s given you these urges you can’t quite control. You try to look away but that portal she was gifted or cursed with [depending on the day], sings the same song your mother did to you as a child. It sweeps you numb and causes reckless thoughts sending you to hell then purgatory, but only just after you touch the outskirts of heaven in the bathroom stall.

Don’t forget to wash your hands.