...
When you touch me, does it burn?
. . .
He used to say my touch burnt him.

I never really new what that meant.                                                  

                                                   That was before I set the world on fire.
                                                   That was before I set life ablaze.

The   oxygen   was   s w a l l o w e d   up.
Nothing   was   left   to   breathe   but   black   s m o k e.

        The   ash   c l u n g   to   my   hair   and   c l o u d e d   my   eyes.
                   Flames   w r a p p e d   around   my   wrists.              
                   Flames   licked   up   my   thighs,   over   my   hips.  

My creations claimed me as their own.
And made me as had I made them.