cunt. bomb.
Coming Soon: February 2019
This Wild Fire
What my mother must have thought on the night of her attempted suicide.
The fire was ripe as it tore across my skin. Mango-hot,
koi-heavy with gold. I took the flames of my finger nails,
like sabers and wrenched the heat from my neck. Tore
four talons of plump honey-colored juice from the anterior
jugular vein. Leaked out onto the rug. I was a stain spreading.
The shag carpet testament to the need for my escape.
I wanted the roar to go away. The dizzying house to dissolve.
I thought I saw my daughter fall, but the storm was so thick
and the locust blurred my sight. I did not drop to my knees.
Instead my bathrobe was a wail-song. My hair scripture.
Midnight and it was absolutely fucking biblical.
I ran zig-zag from the house. The cold air of it an embrace.
For those few minutes, I was a wild fire of a woman. Lot’s Wife. 
But this time 
I did not look back. 
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