Panicked Tile

[friedseabass]

As steam fills the space with heat and noise,
I don't sweat,
but the walls do.

The heat pushes the filth out from the pores of paint,
to form yellow domes of my regrets,
acrid and bright like sickly candy drops.
I still don't sweat.

I can wipe this smaller world clean,
but the heat always pushes, always draws,
bringing the boils to my eyes
surrounding me with what I keep inside.
I still don't sweat.

I can't breathe now, can't see.
I collapse to the cold floor and suck from the vent,
but it has nothing to offer me.
I still don't sweat.

Suddenly I want the heat so badly.
I want it to push, draw, and soil,
to pull this bile from out my own skin,
but only the walls get forgiveness tonight,
and I still don't sweat.