Walking Into Black

Salt, Wind, and Fire

Her anger; her terror
falls through her fingers like salt.
The kind of salt that
if you rub it between your hands it would
tear your flesh from your bones,
Splitting you in pieces.
The kind of acidic salt
that stings when you touch it;
That slits your wrists
even if you're not ready to die.
It falls from the sky like tears
even if you're not able to cry.

It's the kind of salt that
that washes your skin away,
But after a while,
It will be okay.

Her fury; her fear
tugs at her hair like wind.
The kind of wind that
longs to be free, yet is stuck in a cage,
Broken to pieces when put in a rage,
Cries out for merci yet cannot be heard.
We're all so used to it,
after all,
that we stopped caring.
Because who cares about fixing something
when you know it can just go back the next day?
Why do anything
if it will return anyway?

But the fire in her eyes
Can only be put out by water;
It's grown too big that
it can't flicker out by wind
like a candle.
Wind will only feed it.
That's what happens if you don't stop it and delay:
If you let it grow, let it stay,
it will be harder to fix her.

But if you let it grow long enough
there will be nothing to fix.

Weave apologies and fake sorrows,
None of these can remove the fire before tomorrow.
It's like blowing it out with wind:
it only needs it.
But, after all, you can only feed upon the things that feed a fire,
And every step I take just builds my stake up higher,
And every little white lie you say,
Although meant right and small,
Is rather wrong and big;
It adds another log
and blows another gust of wind
That doesn't help
But rather breaks
the serenity she simmered in.