Her Name is Cocoa

She bites my lip during our first kiss,
then proceeds to rip the top layer of skin
from the roof of my mouth
just behind my teeth, planning on leaving a blister.

She's not angry and bitter, like her sister
who only comes out in the morning,
applying her acrid flavoring liberally
to brighten everyone else's day.

And she's not weak-bodied, like her little brother
who needs assistance for his afternoon ritual
from others who would make him appear strong
and full in his British rituals.

No, she has a warmth, steam rising, but she
kills with her sweetness, and the soft
tongue that licks and covers the mouth,
interrupted only by an intrusive marshmallow.