Dahlia

The scorch mark is still there.

It won’t go away.

I don’t know why I keep trying to rub it out with my sleeve. Maybe because it makes what happened feel temporary. Like it was just a burst of rage, not a door I opened with my mind. Not something alive. Not something that whispered.

I crouch there, hand trembling, scrubbing at the floor like it will shrink me back into someone the world can handle.

But I’m not small anymore.

And I don’t know ...