he asks me, “where did you come from?”
as if he cannot believe I stand before him,
some version of a dream he once had
about a woman he would one day love.
like I am an apparition, suddenly appeared,
as if it’s the first day of my life — or maybe his.
I tell him, “I crawled from the pits of hell,”
with a smile, like it’s a cute joke,
but there’s truth laced in the teasing.
because I was forged in fire so hot
it melted the joy from my heart
and choked the breath from my lungs.
I did claw my way out of despair.
and though I’ve dusted off my shoulders,
there’s still dirt buried under my nails.
I am the blacksmith of my own steel,
molded into a blade sharp enough to cut throats —
or to slice fruit from the tree
and feed you with gentle hands.
and maybe that’s why he looks at me in awe,
afraid that I will vanish as quickly as I appeared.
so he leaves first — suddenly, in the morning —
walking away as if distance
will save him from catching fire,
as if loving me will turn him to ash.
but my fire leaves embers in the blood.
he will carry the taste of me on his tongue,
my breath stitched into the seams of his memory.
and one night —
when the world is quiet and the air tastes of smoke,
he will find himself at the edge of the pit,
looking for my light.
