The Old Volcanco

Your hands are not idle,
dipped in magma,
the underground of your rage,
strained from exertion.

Your voice boisterous,
in colorful ways,
but don't you see my gaze,
the cold shiver down my spine?

The mere image takes fear
and sprinkles it in my brain,
creating flashes ancient to me,
of the old volcano.

The one who calls me a daughter,
with its hands made of leather,
the slashes cut deep,
and the cries drown my mouth,
until I don't know my own name.

Begging to stop,
to stop the images that cloud my reality,
to stop the force inside you,
to stop the volcano,
to stop the old,
from consuming you,
from consuming me.