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A clear, bitter venom
that moves through me
drop by deliberate drop.

Frustration pulses
like something with fangs,
pressing against the inside of my ribs
as if it wants out,
as if it’s tired of being civilized.

And the lostness —
that’s the toxin’s carrier.
A slow drift through fog
where every direction feels wrong,
every step dissolves behind me,
and even my own shadow
won’t commit to staying.

I feel like a creature
built from cold blood and instinct,
moving because stopping
would mean letting the venom settle.

So I keep going.
Jaw tight.
Pulse steady.
Carrying this quiet poison
not to use it —
but because it’s the only thing
that reminds me
I’m still alive enough
to feel the sting.

The Cold Bite Beneath My Tongue

There is a snarl
lodged behind my teeth,
sharp enough to cut me
every time I try to speak.

I am tired
of swallowing it.
Tired of pretending
the taste of iron
is anything but rage.

My anger is not fire —
fire warms.
This is frostbite,
slow and merciless,
gnawing its way inward
until even my breath
cracks.

Frustration coils in me
like a jaw unhinging,
ready to bite down
on anything that moves
too close.

And the lostness —
it’s the worst of it.
A white-out blizzard
inside my skull,
no path,
no shape,
just the sound of my own steps
disappearing behind me
as if I was never there.

I feel like a creature
with no den,
no direction,
just teeth and cold
and the instinct to keep going
even when the world
offers nothing
but more ice.

But I’m still here.
Jaw clenched.
Breath sharp.
Teeth bared just enough
to remind the dark
I haven’t broken yet.