Trickles of rage
Pool in my palms.                 The acid threatens to shoot out my eyes again.
The unmistakable sound of a man’s upper handed shake.
Daring my knees to buckle,
begging my will to break.
Invisible scars line my cheeks from the men before him.
The ones that sharpened my tongue before I had the chance to bleed.
Daggers come out when men try to rest their hands a top my head.
I can smell their weaponized incompetence wafting off their smirked face. I react the only way I know to work,
Clawing like a panther when the snake comes to bite.