Hot Water

By: Esme Stone

they say not to wash your hair with hot water

they say it’ll damage and scorch it behind repair

but how can hot water compare to the hell fire that i have seen?

the smoke which rose and stained the back of my throat with ash

the deepest corners of my airways where only trapped, unspoken words reside

the blackened soot coats those hidden sentences

chokes them, forces them out of me the way my body forces out the ashes

how can hot water compare to the burning twin flames of jealousy and envy, and the

white-hot fire of rage?

the spark and crackle of peace has yet to burn and stain the bark of the tree that i am, a

veritable ariel encapsulated in the marked wood, marked by flames which emerged

from deep inside the ground,

slithered its way through and along the roots and found its place deep within the many

rings,

burning away from the middle to the outside, scorching and destroying and blackening

the fires of harmony and calm are ones which lay dormant, deep beneath the ground

those flames can only be hidden deep within the core of our mangled earth, flickering

and extinguishing,

it’s heat stolen and repurposed to fuel those fires of anger and venomous screeching

cries of sacrilege and sacrifice that echo across the surface.

Rationale: What started as a little rant about people getting on my nerves about hot water turned into... something slightly overdramatic (just my style), and fanciful. Enjoy :)