That Drink Called

The foam spills over,
a gush of froth
cannot be contained -
guilt.

And it streams out of
its perfect, proportional container
expanding and corrupting
ever delicate thing it touches -
my remorse.

But I drink it up
flat now flavorless,
let it sear my stomach,
locked in to process, to decay.

And my mouth fills
with the aftershock;
no matter how I wretch -
its in me.