She’s such a strange girl.

We watch—she stumbles, and in her wake

the wind tosses a curl upon

her weakened shoulder—she fumbles.

We’re jealous of her delicate

antagonism, of her silent anarchy.

She tears her family apart

in the way only beer and prophylactics know how.

Alas, it’s drawing near, the end of

the year. “The end of this

despondency.” She swears:

She is swiftly slapped.

The records slap her face,

the lyrics scar her skin.

They are the Devil’s mask, they are

her escape.

She has signed a waiver

unto her death.

She has checked the necessary contracts

to ensure that she goes smoothly.

Chaotic is her mind, unbridled

like the January wind.

Like a gust we wreaks havoc at home:

She tears, rips, claws, gnaws.

“She is a killer,” they say.

He is unmoved.

She is unloved.

He notes she cannot be touched.

He wants to touch her.

They are seventeen, his desire burns

like the amputated end of a cigarette.

He will capture her soon or fade.

He will capture her and hold her,

the way the sun possesses the clouds

only

at daybreak.

Then they scatter.

Party guests scatter, find a mate.

Confetti glistens on the floor too soon.

“Premeditated mess.”

Ten, nine. Her lips glisten like

small jewels in the dark.

Six, five. He takes her hand, his

heart is beating with the words he never speaks.

It is midnight and they kiss.

It was not their first, but she is

different, somehow. She is

radiant.

They kiss again.

They kiss all year.

That night it comes to him.

They are in love.

She is bridled only by her

passion. The way a pet always comes home,

she is wild, she is stable only for him.

She is feral in her lust.

She rebels.

She burns, she tears, she cries.

She is no longer the wind.

The wind creates the fire.