Mist

The wisps circled
her fingertips.

She would
watch them dance
as she let slip
a knowing smile.

Other days
she would
feel a melancholy fear
slide into her mind

and it would mar her face
with scars she couldn't see.

Dodging bullets
she had created
herself
had never been
so fearsome.

She would stand and
in flowing movements,
drive her soles
into the ground

with every step

the soil would break
as her figure
twisted into torrents.

She turned in
to smoke.

and she never really
made it home.