Under Her Glass

She was a volcano.
A hot tempered embellishment
obscured under a deep dark
sheet of obsidian.
Her flakes could slice
the thickest of sinew
and flesh was but a tissue
that bled waves of red
while lost to her smoldering friction.

Compartments of compliments
cared not for her ire,
only wanting to tease at
her desire and say that they
had mastered her fruitful valleys,
that they had trudged all mightily
and claimed the ebb of her peak.

She was a volcano,
all delicate and flowery,
and sick of complementary
smokescreen bullshit…
so she roared “Fuck it!”
and lit the skins up in molten fire.