Fire and Ash, How the Soot Never Leaves 

By Rhianna Mason

Rhianna Mason is a first-year Environmental Sciences major. She plays on the women's soccer team and is very passionate about environmental conservation. Most of her work is free-form poetry with a focus on nature and mental health. 

I sit on my bed  

as the sunlight from the window shines through and hits my face. 

I let every single sin I’ve ever committed fill up the room.

As it does, I convince myself that I was born sick. 

I remember all the years I’ve lived with the disease,

the years I let it consume me,

an insatiable pest, never quite had its fill of my suffering. 

I ponder on the thought of how living would be 

if things were different. 

If I were different. 

I begin to weep, wondering why my existence plagues my soul so!

I remind myself not to be foolish. 

I am the enabler of this malady. 

I cannot beg for change when I have only ever begged for sickness. 

Is healing possible? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?

Or perhaps a meadow of flowers where my worries can rest? 

Those all-encompassing worries of who I am, who I ought to be,

and who I never want to be like. 

I used to believe healing meant becoming who I was before the fire, 

but I’ve also learned there is no going back, 

not when my bones have memorized the burn,

not when my DNA has catalyzed the inferno.

I am not the softest animal nor the kindest person, 

I am not the sacrificial lamb who bows their head, 

I am not the one that flinches at the first hint of violence

nor the second sign of harm

nor the third inklings of bruises 

but still I offer my throat,

even when the taking carves me hollow,

even when I begin to rot like day-old fruit. 

I apologize far too often.

I apologize for bleeding on the teeth that bit me; 

I held the hands that strangled me to keep myself warm.

The memory of the flame is always at the door,

licking at the edges, burning its charred markings. 

I thought I had walked away from the burning house, 

so sure I would never return. 

But it's cold out here. 

I shiver without the weight of the burn.

I long for the warmth of the flame, 

for the familiarity of the scalding burn. 

The soot has left its mark on me. 

Should I buy a jacket or keep walking out in the cold? 

Should I return to that burning house?

Should I stick it out in the blizzard?

As I burned, you only ever complained of the smell of ash. 

You complained of my belligerence. 

I was only ever an inconvenience,

even as my soul rotted within.

Could you see the fruit flies flitting around my rotting soul? 

Did they buzz in your ear?

I am sure you would swat them away

or allow them to burn in the blaze,

just like I did.