I am the
mumbled clause,
immortal motto
barely making it past
the rapids/teeth.

I am the
extra passenger
behind the tinted window
watching people
walk past my face.

I am the
foreign scent
of a subliminal threat
literally hiding
right under your nose.

What I am not is the
duration of secret,
or the very explosion
of wrong timing,
or no timing.

So tell me when you plan to
open the window and let the
exotic breeze burn her lungs,
and the slurred words clog her throat.

When do you plan to face the consequences,
of freeing me into the light,
and making her aware
that her amputated suspicion,
is breathing beneath her breath?
Because sooner or later, someone
is going to run out of
air.

 
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