friction

it’s that certain brand of bitterness that
lingers in the back of your throat
and makes you want to spit. it’s that
deceptive quiet, that clever cloak behind which
hides the cloying aftertaste, cumulative
and unrelenting. everything else
takes a back seat as blackness drips down into
your bowels...

it’s a dull, pounding realization; it’s a wet rag
dragged across a stone slab; it’s everything
inevitable; it’s skin on hide, hide
on skin; it’s friction.