“I wrote that with sparks in my hair. I wrote it from inside the blue part of a flame…” - Maggie Smith
I, too, have written with sparks in my hair. Each word, each sentence, each paragraph building to a colossal CRACK as I slash through the page. I have spoken with sparks in my throat. Hissing, hot, righteous. Pointed, sharp, desperately clawing at the darkness to make just one pinprick of light.
For a long time, my language was dull, soft, scared. My words all ran together. Mushy, gushy, watery sludge. Recently, I gathered the courage to read some of them. I felt very sad. Much sorrow for such damp convictions.
So now I say, call your rage. Pick it up, examine it under a microscope, in the darkness, beneath the sun, after a shower, in bed. Show your friends, tell your mom, talk about it when it’s impolite and inappropriate. Do not feel bad.
Now that I have smoking hair and burning lips, everyone wants to meet the girl on fire. I am a curiosity, an oddity, a marvel. I’m astonished by my capacity to expand. I burn fiercely for the people I love, the people I write about, the people who cherish and celebrate a girl with thick, coarse, electric hair. My cheeks smolder when I’m with them.
I CRACK
I BOOM
I BAM.
I am in the blue part now, where the flame has the most oxygen. The space of complete combustion. I have passed through red, orange, and yellow to be here. Perhaps I will burst into purple one day, my essence surpassing all pre-existing flames. But today, there are sparks in my hair. I use up all the oxygen everywhere.