Burned

Poetry 6 A bonfire blazes under my tongue. Flint teeth struck sparking retorts behind a mouth dammed by God Himself. Hot breaths fan flames so I refrain from fuming.

But I’d pay to spit embers at that pat grin smearing stained teeth between red lips. Scarlet flecks stick on a clicking monologue full of how-you-see-its and that’s thats.

I’m a churning furnace of words. Smarting crimson kindling and bitter ash fueled by the twigs you try me with and stoked by the specks in your eyes.

Through this incinerating conversation, I keep from becoming volcanic. But girl, I’m going home to boil tea with the coals meant for your head.