Resent.

Effort, dirt on fragmented thirst,

she lets assert, and the hurt equals comfort.

But you don't skirt there checking math, 

one can heat the cake, and melt the mud exact.

So you subtract skin, deliquescing to react,

for slowly I'll sink away, too bothered to distract.

What makes enact - is an anxiousness in attempt,

for distress is fragile, when taken in contempt.

 

And that leaves me muted, frosted with intent,

vexed in slow disquiet, and disarmingly foment. 

That might scotch the riddle, buried thin in clutter,

as despite a sweet taste in the mouth, you're still left bitter.