Picking it all to pieces

I was once described as volatile by somebody’s mother. The person who informed me of this was amused by my surprise at such a description. They teased me about it a bit, and then assured me that it was completely accurate.
I’m sure the word ‘volatile’ has cropped up in many people’s thoughts when they’ve spoken to me. As they’ve stood there, slouching. Hearing me say all these words that just seem to fall from my mouth like apples. They ponder for a moment…What is this girl..? Suddenly another word attacks them. Volatile. The word greets them out of nowhere with the same force as the wind from a speeding train punching a newspaper on a soaking platform or a barber with a fine pair of scissors, chopping away. They snap back to the conversation, and suddenly I’ve warped into the most fluid and unreliable being they’ve ever laid eyes upon. Perhaps they grimace slightly.

The Unalchemist

The unalchemists
Turn wine into water
Every single day.
They don’t like gold
Instead
They prefer to cast spells and transform
The gilded into coal.

Some say the unalchemists are
Not of this world
Due to their manners:

They are completely spaced out.

And the only way to understand them
Is to liken them to
Other unworldly things:

A tiny monster.
A ragdoll, rolling down the hill.