We sweat out the holy stuff.
You used my ribs like one uses
the rough side of a matchbox
striking up your fingertips
to light the rest of my skin on fire.

I'm glad I was just another burnt tip
in your collection.
I'm glad it was an easy discard.

I took a mental photograph
of you in that moment--
Bare chest, pulling down your boxers,
holding my face like one molds a statue,
bite marks on my jaw line.

I smoldered in your sheets,
you kicked me out of bed.
This must be what Pompeii  looked like
after all the ashes cleared.

I'm glad I was just another pretty girl
you liked to watch go up in flames.

I'm glad you didn't ask me to stay.