My mouth burns. Never on command, and never the way I want it to. It burns with the fires of a thousand burning suns, searing my intelligence. It hides good decision making behind a facade of survival. There is no escape. Cold only makes the pain more complex. Milk deepens and distributes. Carrots tempt bit tongues and lips.
As salt in my wounds, so capsaicin reveals weakness.
A salt and vinegar potato chip prepped the horror. A tasteless salsa provoked the horror. A raw jalapeno delivered the promised premise.
And now, no matter where I turn, I know I am alive. I am eater of jalapenos. I am biter of death. I am sleep country USA, why buy a mattress anywhere else ding.
I am delirious.
