The Fire

by: Maya Wilson

Growing up, I didn't know anger.
Anger was this wooden box full of smoke,
tucked inside people's mouths and then forgotten.
Anger wasn't yet a fire. It wasn't dragon's breath or a bugle horn.
That didn't come 'til later.
For now, I learned that anger formed snakes of people's tongues,
daring them to twist their words into this and that.
Anger was slippery and it was quick,
a smoke that filled your lungs and made you sick.
It was a warning sign and the disaster.
It was a way to sedate others, to keep them in your grasp.
When I was thirteen, I learned that smoke can burn.
It knows no mercy, even if you ask.
It's painful, and bubbling and a little too hot.
Anger was a cruel friend, who mocked and feigned sweet.
Anger lashed and licked away, leaving scars to rot.
But soon, it turned to flames, clearing all in its haste.
The fire and flames took the house down with it,
The girl and her dreams, and every last minute.