Sharp Tongue

Compacted neatly into bite-sized balled needles,
my internal epidemics huck out.

They vomit forward:
as adjectives as nouns as verbs as plurals;
damnable daggering hounds stretching necks
far ahead to snap maws
tight around unsuspecting jugulars.

They exceed in throttling the light.
Narrowing all things.
Fumigating my mother’s daffodils upon
the windowpane to the point of decapitation.
These pellets do eat away at the air,
choking me wild and stupid,
then proceed to flush and rush as fireballs
into the throats of the gaggle surrounding.

Sliding through countless teeth,
they swamp mouths and eyeholes.
They dog you, specifically,
quite mercilessly.

Helpless, stone dumb,
swallowingly daft,
I watch a sea of stomachs
glow hot, as scalding pokers,
burning away coats of skin
to expose vulnerable bones beneath.
Your bones, boom white as snow.

A calm before the storm strikes, like a match.
The explosion hits as a silence,
slithering fast over everything.

You pale. Corpselike you stand
with trembling glass in hand,
lip clenched as a rain drop on a leaf.
My tongue has killed, again.

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