The Arsonist
Guilt is a brush fire, charring her tissue paper skin. The burn of blame, the scorch of shame, like gasoline, stokes the flames. From somewhere beyond the abyss, a silvery voice, like snow, arrives quietly on a whisper, abruptly evaporating into the embers. The sound of grace often visits the self-imprisoned. Hawking up the ash that had made a home in her lungs, she wipes the toxins from her lips. “I am good,” she utters through hot tears, at long last, drinking in clean air. The truth had...
