Your voice is billowing pillow lava.
Bulbous, bursting, breaking with a hiss of air,
Viscously misshaping my actions and my deeds,
Hardening and cooling all for which I care.

Your words form,
Molten from hatred and vitriol deep in your chest
Then ejected under heat and pressure,
Coating me in skin sizzling pain that never rests.

I am not tectonic.
I did not rumble under your surface and trigger this rage.
You are the source that keeps this all burning, and churning.
But you’ll not devour me; this is no Pompeii.


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