Fragile Foundations of Words Spoken

The sharp bruising of my throat is
My soft-cut belief, being torn
from shallow shaking hands as the
hot kiss of your eyes disregard
My curdling refusal, shown
blatant, by my unstable smile.

Your hollow touching of my skin
and wet seizure of my lips, yet
reminds me of the cool bite of
a frog, who mistakenly took
a wasp for a fly. You think me
silent, be assured I am not.

My voice, a call from the women
before. Tearing down your castle
of lies, you have built upon the
wavering ruined rocks of your
shattered past. You will have nothing
left, but the ashes of deceit.