Strepsil.

You, a demon, glare one-eyed and blinkless through the keyhole of my closing door, as I howl and hide, wounded by your scratch clutching together the loose rags of my skin. This pain is a cystic strepsil rolled under my tongue; it is a juicy pebble of yellow glass cracked between my gums. Its bitterness is a lemon, soother of my puckered teeth. My snarling tear ducts spit at your pictures; you ugly, cruel beast. The stumps of horns rip through the tightened flesh of your forehead and the stench of rot is oozing from the limp sac of pus and pride that is your heart. My feelings are sore and acne’d and your memory pustulates beneath my skin unable to pop nor swallow itself back into my swollen cheeks, my thoughts are waxy and wane into the crevices of my eardrums thick and sticky with rage my muddy words are strangled in the pink fists of my screaming bowels and I long to crack open the lines of my palms and gouge out every blistered nerve that recalls the heat of your naked torso. I long to pierce my throat and let the blood spurt out from my engorged veins, spewing and sloshing against my ribs pooling in the buckets behind my collarbones until the spectre of your fanged soul ceases to gulp at my neck. and you will starve as I writhe and convulse and vomit every deformed morsel of forgiveness from my stomach, there will be nothing left here for your clanking jaws, nothing but for this single throbbing strepsil anchored to the pitted pink flesh of my tastebuds.