i still sometimes hold my wrist over a candle flame
a second or two too long.
i flick lighters playfully while i'm on the phone
or sitting at my desk -
let the flame burn the metal guard until it's scalding,
gingerly finger the hot metal once it cools
a little.

i hand the jack knife who's sole purpose
for these past six years
has been that of a butcher
to friends who sit kindly on my bed,
trying to open boxes from home.

and i still long for that butcher's comfort.

i still miss the bite of hot metal,
the searing pain of lit matches.

and if they didn't leave scars,
i know i would indulge:
like a sweet candy
that i've been told isn't good for me.