By Evangeline Ford, TIWP Student
“With her straw blonde hair, arms hard and lean,
She’s the angel of small death and the codeine scene.”
Do you ever get so angry that you feel it in your lungs, above your lips, squeezing your temples, longing to be set free? All her anger is poured into the fire that drenches this angel’s wings. Fire is without a doubt exciting. It’s hot and so tamable and untamed at the same time. It whispers in your ear, begging you to touch it. Have you ever heard that thing that fire can’t burn you if you don’t give it permission to?
I’ve never been good at speaking to fire, but she is. With her straw blonde hair down, she sat down at a cafe table, lit a candle, and talked with the flame for hours about art. The fire was tamable. But when the cafe table became jealous, it wanted to touch the flame, too. The curtains touched the flame, as well as the baker’s apron. The chairs. The floor. The windows all loved the flame, and soon the only patron left was the woman who spoke to the flame. The fire was untamable.
At the end of it all, the woman, the angel, found her small death in the flames, the same one that bathed her wings in a golden light. All over again, she fell through the clouds, her eyes glistening with the victory of her small death. The angel was meant to fly into the sun, and she found a certain beauty in crashing when she should have been soaring.