The elements could never compare—
air could never undo—
dark clouds of pollution the way you do
when you whisk away the weight of self-doubt
with your embrace.
Water could never make waves
as gentle and strong as the curves of your hips.
Fire cannot sting as passionately
as the words of comfort that fall from your lips.
And earth could never birth
a child with similar eyes,
a child laced with the bloodline of mothers before you.
As important as the earth beneath our feet.
As vital as the water we drink.
As necessary as the air we breathe.
As valuable as fire, we burn for purity.
And he sees it—
he knows it.
And he does what he does best.
He consumes it.
He bottles the sustenance of your love
like water from natural springs.
He swallows it
and puts a price on the wisdom,
regurgitates it like it is his.
He parts your loam with impertinent palms
and helps himself first to the produce.
He gnaws unapologetically
at the sweetness of your fruit.
And never has he used the seeds to replant or fertilize you.
Blinded by the flicker
of your passion and vigor,
he never would hesitate
to cover your flame with borosilicate,
and on the surface, he’ll illustrate
that you were his home sweet home.
He’ll place you on a shelf like a paraffin lamp,
proud to boast the stamp of being his chosen one
while you light his path,
illuminating the darkness of his own heart
just bright enough to persuade the ones in his past that
he has changed.
And as you melt his burnt bridges back together
he leaves you alone to collect dust in the dark,
afraid that the world may be too attracted to your spark
afraid that your aptness may outshine his.
He inhales your time,
fills his lungs up to the brink.
Exhales unproductivity like CO₂
and expects you to make due.
You fill your own lungs with disappointment,
convert it back to time
so he can inhale again,
fill his lungs to the brink,
and in the blink
of an eye
ten years have gone by.
And he has used your energy
to fuel his dreams for free.
Dreams that, without you,
he would never achieve
if he had to pay you in the same adoration
you have given to him.
But he is too convincing.
He tells you that craving reciprocation is a sin.
He will recite intellectually the pages of history
written by men before him, like him,
that say your gravitational pull
is strong enough to keep him grounded
from his impulses
and bad decisions.
Your place is behind him.
The elements could never compare.
But fire destroys forests.
Tsunamis wash away coasts.
Tornadoes level land,
and the Earth quakes to swallow sand.
He tries to force you into submission,
but what he truly doesn’t understand
is that the elements cannot compare to you.
And when the realization finally hits you,
you will find the strength to burn the shelf down
and take him with you.
You will wash away the imprints
of his cruelty,
drag him to sea with a tsunami.
You will shake his hold from you with a mighty quake.
And you will unroot, unearth the damage
like a tornado.
And soon you will replant into yourself
and will be born anew.
The elements can never compare to you.
I know it,
he knows it,
and soon you will too.
Adia Smith began writing short stories for her sisters as a child, crafting makeshift books with illustrations and tales they loved. Growing up in Jamaica, a culture rich in storytelling, Adia was naturally drawn to writing, encouraged by her mother. She enjoys creating stories about strong female characters and hopes readers find the same joy in her work that she does in writing it.
Featured image by Sergey Kuzmich on Unsplash.
