She’s wind and rain
And fear and pain
She’s twists and spins
She’s the blade of all sins

She’s bone and dust
She’s beauty and lust
She’s ash and fire
The core of men’s desires

She’s the darkest nightmare
And the sweetest dream
She’s all you imagined
But not what she seems

She wins all games
Of death and thrones
She’s queen of flames
She’s skin and bone

And she’s in the shadows
Tearing worlds apart
Then putting them back together
She’s Fireheart.

Dear Drift Compatible,

You are my best friend. We do not talk every day, but we do not have to. You are kind, and good, and loving. You are my best friend, and sometimes more like a mom, and I love you for that.

When I was broken up with on your porch and ever so suddenly homeless once more, you let me keep some of my stuff with you while I was in the hospital.

You offered me a place with you wherever you are if I ever need it, and that is the kindest, most beautiful thing someone has ever done for me. If I could compare you to a summer's day, I probably wouldn't. They're humid and gross and sticky, things we hate. Winter wouldn't work either, too cold and your heart is too kind and warm.

Maybe early Fall. We'll look back into it.

Thank you for being the Spock to my Kirk ('cause you make sense and I'm an emotional mess but we're both pretty smart), the Riza Hawkeye to my Roy Mustang without the weird ****** tension, and  the Fireheart to Graystripe because everyone knows you're the logical Fireheart and I'm the poor-decision making Graystripe. You are the Levy to my Lucy ('Cause Fairytail had to be mentioned).

Forever your adopted child,
Who needs glass when we have anime and cats?

red ink and red lipstick
there is nothing so red and gruesome than
a fireheart, a bleeding heart, striking matches and flickering
on cold white sheets and with your skin white as poetry
(T. S. Eliot's sighs, Bukowski's love bites, a blush red as Plath)
and your bed is neatly made, and my sheets are a field of unmown lilies
and the creases are pressed out, changed,
scarlet lipstick streaks and crimson ink washed away.

I swore-- like a sailor who's lost her heart to the waves--
you could point to your ghosts
and I would burn them with all of my fierce and my fury
and all the fire that I had.

I wish I was your sister that no name nor space could come between
our fingertips, our morbidezza fingertips like Mandarin porcelain
and the space between our fingertips is the space between heaven and earth.