And as nonsensical words come flowing out of every orphus, like lava from Mt

And as nonsensical words come flowing out of every orifice, like lava from Mt. St. Helen, I can see the paint peel off the walls; I can smell the metallic stench of lead (with hints of live wood); I can hear the groan of stressed supports; and I can feel the heat reverberating back.

The liquid rage spilling over my lips drips and dribbles off my chin and down my chest (burning the supple skin between my breasts and lifting long tendril like blisters down the length of my stomach) crashing, like meteors, onto the glass surface of the vinyl earth beneath my feet; each profane, vulgar phrase waiting to cool and harden in this momentary fury.

Soon the lava will cease to flow.

Soon, like ash sashaying in the wind finding its way from a volcanic mouth to the ground, my body will swish and sway to the floor. Here it will be frozen in a contorted fit of rage; a hollow shell of pain. Long after the lava has cooled leaving this volcano dormant and the truth raped and defiled… this shell will remain.

This pain:

a constant reminder of your mistakes.