I could of sworn the salt water evaporated into the air. And I could of sworn it dried my skin out to cracks like the desert I moved to. I could of sworn it made my skin too small for me. I could of sworn that this skin wasn't mine.
At that point, nothing was anymore.
Why do we scream when we're in pain? This anger is excruciating.
I was told you can't set a person aflame. Yet they drench me in gasoline and light the match with a sense of excitement and willingness that terrifies me and makes my bones feel hallow.
I'm used to the burn of something being so cold - it's hot.
The fire spreads to the inside. my stomach erupts and the anger spews out of me like vomit should have.
Coming home to them feels like I'm coming home to Summer.
The smell of change in the air invites a fit of qualm. The smell of honeysuckle and heat makes my knees go weak.
A season where I lose myself like I lose myself completely to them. They take the roots of me away and use them for their own basis of standing - a stable ground of manipulation and passiveness.
Like a leaf, I fall during a specific season. Like waters unthawing - I rage.
I used to say that I thought forest fires were beautiful, a work of art, until I became one.
I felt like I was the one who was responsible for destroying everything in my path.
But this was arson.
I didn't light the first flame.
YOU ARE READING
The Swallows and the Sunsets
PoetryI tend to find meanings in things not intended to have one.
