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. ...