Finish Me.

The secret was once hot and juicy inside a red and white paper bag now crumpled into a ball and thrown in the back seat. It was shoved beside the console making translucent oily splotches. It was being picked out of teeth by a tiny wooden spire controlled by nauseous regret. It wafted out of a car with the scent of hot fabric and vinyl every time the door swung open and slammed closed again.

It was packed away inside a neon colored thermal lunch-bag and floated above the parking lot dangling from a hand with short bloated fingers. It went into the community refrigerator and every time the bag came out and went back inside, it was lighter. The secret got heavier upon mixing with saliva, breaking down into less complex structures while shooting into mouth reactors that caused tiny explosions of joy, pleasure snapping and popping between ears.

Jingling money went into a slot on a machine with a clear glass window and the secret inched forward in a shiny bright wrapper, falling a few feet into a contraption where it landed with a crackling crash. It took flight through an escape hatch in the clutches of its defiler. It later got stuck to office doorknobs and keyboards and adding machines and made appearances during staff meetings while handing out documents.

It came to the doors of apartments and houses in flat square boxes and the gooey masses arrived in perfect rounds to deliver the secret on cardboard platters. Cut into various shapes and sizes, it was too hot for fingertips and burned delicate skin on roofs of mouths.

In every instance, the mechanical motion of jaw clamping and moist rapture mixed with salacious gurgling ...and the secret made itself known with a tiny voice whispering, “Finish me.”