Her.
A breath of smoke seen as a savior rather than what she truly is before it's too late.
She has matches for nails and she walks the walls of a charcoal house, that stains clothes and seeps into your lungs, using it as a canvas, a piece of art, although abstractly beautiful you grow sick to look at it.
Her.
An eruption of flames in the basement below the cabin of life, separated by a layer of
"I only do it occasionally."
"I'll quit soon."
"The smell isn't that strong."
She tingles at those words because she knows they work in her favor, they're pawns in the game she's mastered, shields in the battles she's fought.
Gasoline in the arson that burns away everything we love.
"They can't fight back," she says
"I've taken they're teeth, I've taken their lungs, I've taken my time in dragging their suffering, with the light of a match."
Her.
She has no face, she has no body, but people are drawn to her.
She is much more than that, she is ghastly.
Her.
She's pain in so many ways more than physical.
And she, she is only really gone when we know how to break the layer, and douse the fire in common sense.
There is really no escape for her, she hides in the mouths of those who plaster her ashen smile on every carton, storefront and billboard, and they wear it as a badge.
Her.
She will never leave, because our temptations proceed us.
But the cruelest part, she travels from people we've known, we've loved, and showed us what her final move is. We know the grand finale because she makes you watch.
We still blindly binge.
She, is nothing, but we give her the oxygen, to be not just something, but everything.
