Fire Juice

My mouth broils as he Ogre’s around
our apartment. Things,
little things,
severely minuscule things
are everywhere,
out of place,

His small feet stomp inflammation
into our feeble floors.
His small hands run away from
his body
to find me,
to strangle me!

I watch from underneath
couch cushions, where crumbs of
yesterday lay sullen until
they are found out later
sucked away by his mean vacuum cleaner.

He calls,
he calls me out…

angry laughter speeds from his
black callousness to
my eardrums. I hear them explode.

He stomps with plague.
He stomps to me. Ripping me from
haven, his touch ignites my mouth
filled with fire juice

all I can do is spit!

23 thoughts on “Fire Juice

  1. I’m a big fan of metaphors that speak louder than words, and many of yours (Ogre around, stomp inflammation) will talk in my memory for days.

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