Your cannibalistic voice devours
the root of my courage
as I stand before you like a crumbling tower.
The numerical interrogation
has now been ensnared in my mind –
my befuddled brain dripping
like a leaking faucet
with hysteria.
“This is no trigonometric function”,
your platonic countenance spits...
“...merely a manageable integer...”
Jaw clenches like a steel trap
while anxiety short - circuits
the connection between common sense
and my lips.
“Somewhere around 80,00?....Or eight million?”
You silently berate me.
The beauty painted onto my face cracks –
a broken vase.
Obsidian ink streams
out of every aperture,
creating a patchwork of smut.
You apologize
but
my transparent eyes have already shattered.
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