When Rain = Woman, Fire = Harm

Rain is woman.

She moves in silence,
a thousand silver tongues
whispering life back into the dust.

Fire is harm.
It comes loud,
cracks open the night,
devours until nothing is left

but blackened corners.

When the flames die down,
what’s left is the stench—
smoke clinging to walls,
to lungs,
to memory.
What’s left is the smoldering,
embers pulsing like cruel reminders
that pain doesn’t vanish just because
the blaze has burned out.

Men with matches call it love,
but love does not leave a woman
choking on ashes. Love does not brand her skin
with scorch marks.

Yet rain—
she returns anyway.
She seeps into the ruin,
turns char to soil,
lays herself down on the embers
until they lose their last breath of heat.

Rain is woman.
She carries
the scars—
but she also carries renewal.

Though narcissistic men
may set her aflame again and again,
they will never outlast her.

Because the stench fades,
the smoke lifts,
and what remains,
always—
is rain.