my mother has always told me
that I was like the flu those nine
months she carried my forming
body around. and while many things
about me have changed (my hair
color, my friends, my mental health),
I still burn my path through all
that I do. I can’t help but to consume,
to collect all that I touch, because
I never know how long they will
be mine. I set them all to flames
and enjoy the glow, the embers,
the sound of disintegrating
desires because if I can’t
have it, no one else will either.

I’m so sorry that your fevered body
did not make it. I’m sorry that
when I touched you, your bones
collapsed like the wind absorbing
ashes. but you kissed me on the
ground and what was I to think?
what was I to do but to hold you
so closely that you fell apart to
the floor like a flower?I tried
many times to collect the petals,
but the damage was done.

we were shortly lived,
but we were an inferno.
we were the perfect match
and maybe that’s why
we burnt out so quickly.