It’s molten lava that I can’t spit or spew out
Driving me insane, burning me from within and is the burn inside, is it me? Or is it the situation, something that’ll ever leave?
And I’m so tired of these metaphors: fire, lava, candles
Since I’m water, I’ve always been told so
But how can I think of myself as water, and not think of drowning?
How can I think of myself as flowing, ever-changing, something that is precious and is so difficult to hold within your hands and keep?
How can I think of myself as sensual, feminine, pure, light, virtually weightless, 109 pounds of beauty?
Waterfall or ocean?
Glass or cup or drops or rain?
So which am I: crushing, destroying expanse with no limits and no ends?
Or a few prized drops of dew, of rain?
Something necessary for life to exist at all?