It makes the walls come apart.

The leaves in the tea rock and roll.

The peeks on the pretend painted mountains, come apart.

The food stained envelopes tumble their way across the table.

Who is she.

The small, the wired, the energy.

The pictures again fall from their perches.

The flames engulf the senses.

She darts and dazzles.

Her words are fast, they sizzle and sting.

She pierces.

The maps and make up and wine glasses move around in haste.

Not soft, not gentle, not peace nor fierce or strong.

But raw and vulnerable, a fiery mask.

It sucks the life out of the living, so the objects take the fall.

She is a fire.