285. Undelivered

I want to make him
eat
all his words in bite-sizes too big
to swallow,
so that he
chokes
on his intentions,
leaving his deceitful gifts undelivered,
dribbling excuses over his
chin,
running down his chock-filled
throat.

I want dusk to settle in his
cheeks,
while his
eyes
plead for my Heimlich
and his slippery fingers clutch in vain,
imploring mercy,
receiving merely
a pat
on the back
for making me think he was more
than random.