Glance into Styx
A wisp of smoke climbs the back of my neck
And circles above us, the first telling sign of
Two fatally determined forces burning
Each other in kamikaze combat.
Each imperfection glows a dull red-white
Under your magnifying hazels,
Tiny brushfires scattered about
My body and soul.
This does nothing to slow the
Steady, thick beating
of your voice's 'pop' and 'snap'
At the small of my back.
When my hair begins
To curl about itself,
You respond with an "oh my"
and a "can't you do better?"
And yet moments before I discharge my temper
In a blaze set to boil off the thickest skin
Of you, my newfound enemy that destroys
A fresh heart with a poke and prod,
Seconds before those flames erupt from
Tiny brushfires, you come thick upon me
To blanket my incandescent skin
With careless and calculating praise.
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