Spat Out

A spray of wet hate,

spit catching harsh light on cracked stone.

It splashes with a laugh, uninvited—

jagged as the night’s sour breath.

Dropped saliva sizzles,

a mocking taste, bitter as street grime.

Sticky dots map a broken ground,

a trail of sudden, sharp disgust.

It’s ugly, raw,

like words that stumble too close to the skin.

Spit doesn’t ask,

just lands—sticky, sudden,

and you swallow the sting.

Under flickering streetlamps,

I watch it dry,

salty and sharp,

an echo I can’t unhear.