I lit my first match
when I was eighteen
it was a slip of the
wrist, finger kiss with
fire
clumsy and stupid on
my part
because I had always been afraid
of fire.
Afraid of burns and turns
thorough enough you could
see the true colors
of me
singed
and charred,
scarred.
But now I eat peppers
that make my mouth raw
and empty, that makes everything
I eat after combustive.
But now I sleep in fire places
twisting and turning
at night in a bed of
ashes, a-light
And once I even sought to swim,
underground in magma
searching for that
sensation
of every nerve screaming
alive,
all at once.
Because I've since discovered
it's better for your body
to cry 'hot, hot!'
then for it to whisper
'cold, cold...'