Slide the night onto your shoulders like a silk robe, weaving through the dim stars that blink like tipsy eyes. Go down on me— a dive into murky depths, where sins wear party hats and dance in circles around the wet whispers of my missteps. Until the sheets are drenched— Raindrops made of confessions— in my wrongs, oh, how they wring every drop of folly from between the lines of my skin. We wrap ourselves in damp honesty, a towel in a cheap motel, the line between us blurred like mascara in the rain, running further and faster than we ever did from truth. Call it cleansing, when you're neck-deep in the flood, and staring at your reflection in the puddle of irony pooling beside the bed. I, the poet of my own disaster sip cheap whiskey from the hollowed-out chalice of my half-finished dreams. So go down on me, under cover of these moonlit travesties, strip the lies from their smoke-stained sheets, and let them dance naked, in the open, until we're all just puddles in the eyes of our mirrors.