My Mother's Hair, My Father's Rage

Some people are made of flower petals,

or hard, stony rocks.

Some are black holes

draining the light from everyone nearby.

Some people

carry the elements inside:

water, wind, earth, metal

and me:

fire.

My mother once brought home a psychic

who told her I was too much fire.

Said to drape the room in blue

with curtains, sheets, my clothes too

to cool the heat

that lives in me.

A little color theory.

But there’s a small ember

tucked beside my lungs

deep flames simmering

like the earth’s core.

It builds.

Then explodes.

And all I see is rage.

My voice shrieks.

My fists rise.

She even earned a nickname

from those who witnessed her awakening.

In my family,

we are made of raging forest fires.

Volcanic eruptions.

Our first ancestor

must have roamed the Earth

as a molten creature,

roaring and dripping liquid pain

wherever she went.

My offsprings

they are not petite

they shriek

and I see the descendants

of ice giants

attempting to tame them

but they melt.

A river pours out.

But someone must have loved her.

She must’ve softened

because we are here.

Still glowing,

still burning,

with the ember she left behind.