call me a pyromaniac
but i will simply call myself a lover of warmth and light.
i have been an arson in my own home, over and over,
not my house built up from the earth with brick, and mortar,
but my home.
this body.
this skin.
because there is nothing more beautiful than the way the flames leaped high enough
to foxtrot with the chandelier ,
or the way
the smoke curled with every heart beat, or blink of an eye,
whispering sweet nothings to clean air in my lungs
or the way I danced barefoot to the beat of the fire alarm,
look at me and my passionate party!
maybe,
i am a pyromaniac
going out of my mind and into a box of matches,
or maybe,
my soul is on fire, fueled while I bleed my kerosene blood,
and I have simply learned to dance in my own flames.