I didn’t think about fire
until I was 5 years old.
We once knew a family whose
house caught on fire.
My parents spared me
the details.
But I was terrified.
I wasn’t allowed to light fireworks
until I was 11.
Truth be told I didn’t want too.
I once had a friend whose brother
lit their house on fire with a snake.
The ones meant for concrete.
The ones that are “safer” for children.
He used a blow torch
on his bed.
He was 4.
That was the first day I saw fear.
Not “scary movie cockroach” kind of fear.
The kind of fear that can only be fathomed
when you are so close to death
you can feel it kissing your neck.
I was 13.
That was the year I learned how to use a lighter
I wasn’t allowed to burn candles in my room
until was I was 15.
By that time I really wanted to.
Fire meant responsibility.
Fire meant trust.
I was 16 when I smoked my first cigarette.
I thought it felt right.
Which couldn’t possibly be true
because statistics show
everyone hates their
first cigarette.
That was the first time I used fire
without permission from my parents.
And the funny thing is
it was one of my mom’s cigarettes.
That was the first day I saw adulthood.
Acting without warrant
Fire meant rebellion
Fire meant disobedience.
And ever since.
Everything’s feels right when everything is burning