The entryway to the soul.
The root of warm feelings and kind eyes.
The enemy.

So why had it happened?
Was it a simple mistake derived strictly by folly?
Not a chance.
It was premeditated, but
The words still stammered forward, sharp and jagged.

My poor mouth,
  teeth
Trying to cut sentenced short
  tongue
Gagging on expanded syllables,
  but my larynx
Still snaking words up past
  my uvula

I wished to lap the fragmented sentences back into my empty stomach,
but they had spilled forward,
                                  dried,
                                  and hardened,
like blood pumped through the body too long and finally exposed to outside air.