Blame

Is the taste
Of so many soured promises.
Moving under a tongue like the one by one
Bumps of a spine.
Neck - you claimed you never knew
Between the shoulders - it was already done
Lumbar - you didn't mean it
Blame is burning a dry burn
Makes the mouth unforgiving
A desert.
Each tastebud raised like braille
Though you don't read it.
There is nothing here for you
I can't summon enough to spit.