my throat constricts
.
.
.

and i suffocate on words that
are
on fire.

words that are begging
to be lashed at your face
but lash in my esophagus
instead.

cutting like blades,
bleeding like tears.
it
leaks down and burns my
stomach

and

you laugh,
not taking me seriously
thinking that i wont gag
the next time i think of your face.

don't call me honey.

I said "don't forget me",
and you smiled,
hollowed out my eyes,
with matches for fingernails,
placed them like ice cubes,
in your glass of peroxide,
won't you swallow it?
as if it does not burn,
your crooked throat,
because I know you have wounds,
stitched in your esophagus,
from spitting fire.