Hot Spot

The water hits the tile and starts to steam.

I step inside to let the metal crash

against the things I didn't mean to scream,

the words that left a raw and sudden ash.

But then the heat finds out the hidden fault,

a white and fluid map upon the heel.

It stings like lime or heavy grains of salt,

a localized and honest way to feel.

I watch the bubble rise, a milky dome

against the angry, rising rim of red.

It’s better than the quiet of this home,

or everything you never should have said.