I know my head is full
when it starts dripping onto my tongue,
running down the back of my throat,
painting my teeth like the dentist paints flouride onto my molars.
In both cases,
I can't eat for two hours.
Have you ever licked your lips
and tasted something milky
and realized everyone was was staring
but too polite to tell you?
(This isn't about you,
by the way.
It's about me.)
My fingertips are itching.
The beds of my nails are pulsing
and I only have so much time
before I begin to ooze.
Why do you put up with me?
Why do you let me steal out of your unzipped pockets
with a resigned sigh and a roll of the eyes?
My compulsions tell me they might enjoy a light snack
and I cram their throats until they gag
and ask me what they've done to deserve this.
It's not what you've done--
it's what I haven't.
and the soles of my feet turn cold
as I struggle to construct a vessel to catch the refuse
dripping from the corners of my mouth.
I can only hope to drain the liquid swelling in my throat
before you appear before me,
asking me to speak,
and I spew your own chewed-up words
onto the pavement before your feet.