there is a fire inside of me. not a good one.
a cold warmth, shallow,
not nearly deep enough to permeate through surface skin.
the kind of temperature that doesn't seep into you,
the feeling of a fire that has been left out in the air too long,
and has cooled off in the meantime.

it is a disjointed heat, spread through me like flushed skin,
spotted and blotchy, an uneven feeling. i am off-balance,
always have been. an awkward child, with scraped knees
and a head that tilts leftward. i'll tell myself i'll change,
i'll grow up. i do.

now i google symptoms in my free time and stare through slats in windows and think about you.
i wake up sometimes and my body feels like it is walking too fast
and too slow at the same time.
i wake up sometimes and
i am not in my body.

my knees are clean, knuckles scraped;
i start hitting brick walls in my free time,
when you aren't around.
my head still leans slightly to the left.
i watch movies
where people explode out of themselves
and understand the feeling.
i get it, i get it, i do.
my stomach is empty, so i do not eat.
i am making a home for something inside of it. there is nothing nesting inside of me yet but i know there will be.
the waiting weighs me down.

my heart prickles inside of me.
i'm all muted now. maybe always was.
there is a fire inside of me. that's not who the home was for.