The fire isn’t always red—
cool blue of every shade
more often than not. It fades
and blooms a jagged line and we all wade
in its shallows and depths.
Fear that I’m irreparably flawed—
that is the scorching red.
Behind me, the ghosts of the dead
make me in their image. I bled
out and I breathed in.
Monster or maiden fair—
a tail coils around my porcelain thigh.
A bloody heart beats under a frozen sigh
and the crowds adore, the people cry.
I am who I have always been.
©Ashley Herring Blake 2015