in the darkening of our lives

you and i sparked;

found light in each other’s impending destruction.

in the final rays of blinding

you and i sparked;

found darkness in each other’s fading kindle.

again and again, this world

did not want us, did not

take us for what we were;

again and again,

we faced the fire for what we did.

we are the magic

were the magic

that gave this town life.

and we were left as nothing but footnotes

in the pages of dusty, forgotten books.

It couldn't happen to me.

It wouldn't, it couldn't, it shouldn't happen to me. 

That's what was running through my head when I looked down the barrel of the gun.

It won't. It won't happen to me.

That's what I was thinking when I flicked off the safety, turned the gun around, pointed it at you, and pulled the trigger.

To truly know the start of a story, the reader must understand this: things have to change. The end and the beginning cannot look anything like each other.

My beginning was a little strange for those around me, but I got used to it. In the beginning, getting too caught up in a train of thought during biology class leading to my feet and legs beginning to crack, shift, and rearrange into the limbs of various bugs was hard to deal with. Impossible, even. But it got easier with time.

In time, I learned to control myself. I learned to focus on the image in my head, learned to pick and choose my battles. Sometimes, it was worth it to be the bull someone needed to stop a car, the horse someone needed to get away, the lion someone needed to scare the thief.

The ‘sometimes’ got harder to choose. I wondered if I was in control of my own powers, if they led my train of thoughts instead. One time, in my bedroom, I made my choice. I made my choice with fur and fangs and ears and paws, and my choice made me with guts and sinew in my teeth. I made my choice; Jason made his too, when he got in that argument with me.

Every end must be different from its beginning. In the beginning, I was a hero. Maybe even a superhero.

In the end, it’s not shapeshifting if I’m the monster, is it?

in no uncertain terms, this is what she was;

teenage girl who made half-assed plans

because she was sure the horizon would never catch her.

a wisp of sparks in the ditch in the forest,

yearning to both be fire

and to be put out.

now? 

ash.