The mouth opens like a kiln door,

inside, a riot of magma thoughts slosh against enamel walls,

each syllable a tremor in the fault lines of restraint.

Words ignite like gasoline spilled on velvet,

soft intentions flaring into wildfire declarations.

Desire becomes a furnace where even silence sweats.

The edge arrives,

not with a bang, but a flicker.

Ash drifts like moths searching for flame but finding only dusk.

Lips, blistered with regret, curl inward,

a failed bloom hiding from the sun.

They remember how language can be a scalpel,

a salve,

a locked drawer.

Now the turn,

a reversal that stinks like rusted promises.

The soul wears its shame like barnacles on a drowned bell,

each clang a memory of what could’ve been sung.