A pot of boiling water
By Matt Bloom
@matthew_bloom

When you turn up the heat
To that of dynamite and a bee sting
Pouring it over the skin in anger
It cracks and flakes, sears like a stake

Is that hate?
Is it the water?
It’s the calculation
The tick tick of the clock
And the racing thoughts in the minutes
as the pan births bubbles
and beads of sweat drip drip
down your nose
Salty, evil drops of sweat
Born from whiskey losers

Do you turn off the flame once it bubbles?
Or leave it burning as you
Tiptoe up the stairs
As he sleeps with his lover
Where does the steam go?
It runs into the moldy ceiling tiles,
And through the roof and into the sky

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