#How Fire Loves Ice
(An abstract palette of survival and sacrifice)
Her rage was a shade of dusk—
that forgot how to be sky,
sinking into darkness
too heavy to rise.
I came in red,
not roses, no.
The red of blistered hands,
tongues bitten raw,
the breath before a scream.
She wore her grief like silver thorns,
polished to pierce without bleeding.
Every word she spoke
tasted like rust,
like metal warmed by old anger
and colder love.
I answered with gold-tipped venom,
not because I hated her,
but because mercy wears masks.
And sometimes,
salvation arrives dressed as cruelty
just to be let in the door.
In that room,
we were two storms
pretending to be weather.
She dangled from silence.
I dangled from restraint.
She struggled to breathe,
and I gave her air laced with spite
just to make sure she’d take it.
I could’ve been gentle.
But gentle would’ve shattered her.
She only knows sharp things.
So I loved her in knives.
And after,
when she was safe,
I walked away
with ink-black tears
hidden beneath red lacquered eyes.
Not all love is soft.
Not all villains are liars.
And not all cruelty
is what it seems.