Silent Red Eye

A plastic tang, thin,

like something melting

too slow, just enough to catch

the back of my throat.

Not smoke, not yet. Just

that ghost of a burn

creeping in under the door,

climbing the plaster walls.

The little red eye

on the ceiling, though.

It just stares back.

Unblinking. Dumb.

It waits for a proper flame,

a real choke,

while the air thickens

and my skin prickles.