Fire and Ice

I am made of fire. Of stress and anxiety and bitterness and fire and burning. Of getting tired of everything I touch crumbling into ashes. Of feeling like my skin was going to peel off and burn. Of only finding people who were like gasoline and matches to an already burning flame. People making the flames bigger, brighter, and bolder. Strong, angry flames growing out of me. Only, and always, because no one wants to touch the girl who burns. The girl on fire. Because get too close to flames and you’ll only get burnt. And no one wants to take that chance.

But then I met you.

You are made of ice. Of coldness and hardness and being shut off. Of watching everyone around you being blocked by the wall of ice you built in your sleep. Of not wanting to touch anyone because your hands are like freezers. Of only finding people as frozen solid as you are, clinking ice in glasses to try to get warmer. People added layer and layer of frozen water to a huge brick of ice enclosing your heart. Because no one wants to buy an ice pick to get to the middle of you. No one wants to be touched with hands like freezer burn. The walls are too thick.

But I need you. And I think you might need me.

Because fire melts ice. And ice cools fire. Because when my skin starts to burn, I need your cooling touch. And an ice pick might not be strong enough, but I can create a flame that is. Because I crave the ice like a gardener in August. Because you need the flames like a ski instructor in January. Because this much fire and that much ice will take forever to cancel each other out completely. Because that can’t happen. Because I will always need your cooling touch. And you will always need the flames to keep you warm.