Carcinogens twisting off your hair,
your face, black like pitch,
eyes on fire, flagrant portals up above your still present
smirk.

I see they've gotten to you already.

Your semolina skin, a coarse
textured piece of bathmat; the tears
that will be strewn on it, sordid, unclean
affairs; they are tarnished
by the feet that have been slapped
across your face.
You will scream, of course,
when it happens.
Coarse bellows suggesting a
bovine Armageddon.
But will they listen, I wonder:
I can hear them now.
With their subdued laughter seemingly becoming louder,
each passing second-
the volume comes with the vendetta.