white hot
kelly grace smith
White hot,
it moves frenetically about the room.
Steam rolls off it - dark, vaporous
sheets of wrath.
Haunting, hunting, circling, round and round;
I watch it stalk the prey.
It seethes, fumes, foams
at the mouth.
Your friend, whom you keep so close to you, so very
close to you;
by your side at all times.
Ever present, but never acknowledged;
your cruel, constant companion.
You treat him with courtesy, even deference;
you consult him on all matters.
And I wonder,
why?
There are no introductions; he is aloof, elusive, wary.
His fury vibrates right behind
his eyes.
It is as though he is an insidious part of you;
his energy wound round you like a tangled, taut web
of wire.
He hovers and threatens and snarls
like a sadistic guard dog.
And then, I see it.
It is you
who are guarding him.
You make certain no one gets too close; never close enough
to touch him.
You cater to his every need, every appetite, like an indentured servant;
a frenzied, frantic, manic, slave.
Indeed, it is you who are protecting him;
guarding him,
guarding him with your life.
Giving him
your life.
Your friend, your guard dog;
your cruel, constant, ever present companion.
Your
addiction.
