Rubies are dun, or red as blood,
Opals are blue, opaque, or fire
I know they burn through me,
7 opals in my favorite necklace,
14 in my favorite bracelet,
3 in my favorite earrings,
I encase myself in the flames, like they define me,
Like my birthstone is as much me as I am the earth,
And my own tainted pyre.
And I burn, burn, through all of the old photographs,
Sending them up to the goddess as ash-
Burn, burn, through old cigar boxes, through liquor bottles
And dried flowers and my father's shirts,
And my father's old camera,
And my father's old ideals for who I was to be,
Someone I will never become,
I tore through it all, razed the past to the ground,
And I blistered my fingers, I tore the love letters,
I put the stories written for me, into the ocean,
I sent my farewell postcards for them, upon the rocky shore,
I cried as I watched them torn and taken,
But nobody loves me anymore,
And I burn, burn, like the brightest of opals,
Green with envy like the jade my father stole
Red with rage like Gerry's birth stone and I
But I've made my choices, after all,
So I burn.