It rises like smoke,
choking thought,
clouding breath.

Fingers curl,
teeth press together,
and silence becomes a scream inside.

Walls are not high enough,
words not sharp enough,
time not fast enough
to outrun the heat.

It pulses-
not red,but deeper,
a shadow that speaks
in the voice of every wound
that never healed.

And when it passes,
if it passes,
only the echo remains,
still warm,
still waiting.