(escapril, day 15: describe a smell)

Her rage simmers below the thin surface, vesuvian.

Fists clenched at side, white knuckled, red webbed.

Her throat is raw, the tang of metal lingers still.

She enunciates every syllable like a punch to the gut, visceral and demanding attention.

She is no forgotten girl, no last minute thought. She demands her place.

One day, she might run out of words, but still she shall speak,

With eyes as flinty and acrid as the burning coming up from behind.

To give fearsome life to every slight she has perceived.