Chaos, my friend.

Fire consumes more than one night.
Their wetland, my wasteland.
Internal badland.
In moments,
As a piece of earthen clay.
Moveable, sensitive, tactful, imprintable.
Touch can sink depths with pressure and repitition.
Fire can set to stone.
Fire can burn to the pit.
Harden until a moment of breakage and breach.

She tried to wash her wounds with blood.
To tear down the entire city with one claw.
She tried to run away from life out of hope to live again.

She found life in the pile of burnt kindling.
In her hands within a liquid carcass.
In the smell of smoke deluged sheets.
Chaos, my friend.

- Jenna Collins