Every Freckle on the Way Down

I catch myself staring at you, waiting for a change in expression, a slight lifting of the corner of your mouth or a flinch of an eyebrow.  But nothing comes, your face is still, not even a quiver of the skin.  Your fingers hold tight to the pen within your grip, you squeeze it as if trying to force out words you have yet to come up with on your own.  I repeat the question, with more emphasis on the ending, forcing the fact that, yes, it is a question and directed at you.  Your eyebrow pops up on a single word heard, causing me to wonder what that movement meant, that slight reaction to some inflection in my voice.  I rephrase the question, hoping this alteration will spark a sudden urge for you to speak.  You clear your throat, a strange gurgling and grating that causes me to startle back for a second, shuffling foot to foot like a strange dance stirred by the incantation of your incomprehensible noises.  After a moment of utter and ear-piercing silence, your voice caught in your throat, a sudden stutter.  You bleed through your words, causing me to step back, avoiding getting splattered with the sticky red substance oozing from your lies.  With every syllable, a glistening of red shines across your lips, calling me to crawl upon my knees for you.  Suddenly, you move your arm, so quickly I flinch, hurdling my arms up to block my face as if you would strike me with your tongue.  Itching and writhing, I crawl for you, looking for that glisten upon your lips, calling me to place my hand upon your cheek.  I deliver my message, finally spitting it out completely, lashing you with the tails of my sentences.  Your face shows abrasions, tiny slivers of broken flesh that glistened in the moonlight.  Tears bounced down your face, hitting every freckle on the way down.