Spit

You spit your soul onto faces like venom
your defensive mechanism, your vitriolic verbalisation.
You hope it, caustic and rotten,
will etch itself bloodily and brutal on their features,
sear scars burning into their skulls and their eyes and their minds—

That the festering heart of your being
Will disfigure in its wake and leave
its mark, bitter and virulent,
biting and acrimonious—

That throwing up yourself bare and vulnerable
Of all buried inside like such will seem a soft reminder
in its intrinsic memory—

That the display
might leave an impression.