I sense the tiny impacts and look down –
it’s on my skin and I brush it swiftly off
try to hide the evidence
but now my fingers are stained
and my too big jacket smudged.
I am splattered
dusted with the ideas that fall from my eyes and lips as I read aloud the poetry
leaking from my heart
pounds against my ribs
trying to crush the escapees
but my hands…
my hands are cupped to catch them as they jump.
Save them, love them, hate them, fear them…
They can turn to water or wine in my mouth
they can be sugar soft or a biting on tin foil shock.
If I am poisoned
it will be by my own words.