Slowly, it starts.
Boiling,
Rising,
Seeping through the cracks. With heart
clawing up my throat,
you dance on the tip of my tongue;
your voice 'round mine like flesh on bone.
With your reflection sewn to my feet I cannot escape you.
You are weaved fabric from a familiar land;
a veil that strangles and blinds.
But there will come a time
when I will bite your silver tongue from my mind;
f  l  a  y
             y    o    u    r
                                s      k      i      n
from my bones.
I will be heard
(the ringing in your ear)
"You were never welcome here."