She singsongs incessantly, like a nagging little bird, getting more and more insistent the more she is ignored. There are times when her head aches, when her words jumble, like magnetic poetry that has slithered off the fridge into an incoherent mess on the floor.
She is a child of fire, hard-scrabble, stubborn, tenacious, an orchid growing through muck. Strong, willful, passionate. Terrified. Alone. Flawed. She is the sun and the moon and the wind and the clover. Ghetto and field and nature and city. Her fire builds up and up, consuming her from the inside until it burns itself out and leaves her exhausted shell behind.
And then she does it all over again.
