She burns on the inside
set ablaze by her pain
ant their emotions.
The outside of her
is barely contained,
her self control snapping
in a burst of fiery rage
exhausting its host before
returning to lie dormant
under the skin of her again.
Inside of her the tempest
withers away her hope, her joy
her mind.
She did nothing wrong,
Joan of Arc burning at the stake,
except for her there is no release
into blissful cool darkness.
The flames flow
through her veins and her heart
hollowing it out,
searing away all her hope and faith.
She screams inside
her blood turned to flames,
her heart to ash.
She tries to let the flames out
onto the cold tile floor
where she often lay
weeping bloody tears of pain and betrayal.
All that comes out
a blissful release,
is her life.
