I’m turning
these old ruins
into ballads

I’m storing away the ache
of these scorch marks
Slathering them with words
And wrapping them tight in allegory

I’m turning my flames into verses
Learning how to heal
Through means of
Vulnerable
exposure
of me

Who I am
Not
Who
I wish I was
I’m
        putting
                   Down
                               My
                                         Matchbook
                                                                And
                                                                           Picking                                                                                                                                                
                                                                                          up
                                                                                                   my
                                                                                                             Pen



                                                 (reminder)

I lit the match

But you poured the gasoline


So here’s to recovery

-Pyropoet