On some days, she garners too much fire in her belly that could ignite the phosphorous in her bones. Such is her rage- inflammable
She could start a firework- begins to smoke, spits out sparks, flames and drops ash. There are no invitations to witness the spectacular. It is something she does to herself in silence, behind the doors, when she senses the nearing of an end.
It isn’t over yet, you’d be surprised by the splash and suspension of colourful fumes, forming clouds and clouds of particles made of her, as though she’s weaving a net around herself, or decorating her own cage with glittering items. Her delusion of it being her home.
She could rain so much at the time of outburst that all the water wars in the world would resolve. She’s all craters and fissures, she bleeds at the expense of her beingness.
She converts it all into melodic phrases and sings chorus to a feeble music travelling to her ear lobes, born out of unknown fingers pulling metal strings.