Pick.

This is something that has no choice but to fly out,
wild like an uncovered sneeze.
The itch starts somewhere behind your nose
Unignored, yet underestimated
Until it’s too late to swallow
Too late to rub away the feather-duster sensation
Tunneling through your sinus
A family of droplets land like a thud at the tip of a toe
Most lying spent on the ground
Successful in their suicidal leap
Yet one drop absorbs into canvas cloth of Converse and slowly seeps
Coating and sinking, bone cold with comprehension
Your sneak attack hasn’t fallen idle
Your sneak attack has a victim,
And your victim knows your battle plan.
Just then, adrenalin fades to awareness
Eyes wide, an abstract artwork
Completed by clothespins in each corner
Your victim is knee deep by now.
You’ve loosed your secret weapon
Without declaring war.
Your victim’s first exhale will deliver the kill shot
If yours didn’t stomp the breath from his chest.
Prayer is for the weak of heart.
Prayer is for those who can’t survive,
Even unarmed.
The space between your ears buzzes with panic
and three holes for air,
monotone, a Sunday morning Kyrie.
A gasp scrapes along the walls of your victim’s throat
His eyes, a hellish rapid
Over the deathly bends and gives
Of the palest riverbed.
There’s no air left to grasp behind his teeth
A bomb shelter filled with gallons of water
Meant to dust, never consumed
Wasting away inches below the ground,
Designated for safety,
never to fulfill it.

Turn your back, take your victory
So far lost in pride that you neglect to see
One forgotten drop begins its revenge.