I am going to set fire to every motel 6.
The way that what happened there set fire to my brain.
Because that fire is still burning
and the smoke constantly drips down my throat.
The few moments I remember from when my eyes were closed,
my face pressed into the dingy comforter
are constantly reeling in my mind,
like videos on super 8 that make your mouth taste like bleach
and I’m always praying that the fire will melt the film
but it never does.
In the videos I see The First One and his orange hair.
I remember the way that its ginger began to drip
into every scratch and every cut he made on me.
but maybe the burning felt better than the initial puncture.
In the videos, I see the pads of his fingertips skating over my skin.
I remember feeling the sparks.
Not the good kind of sparks,
but the sinful ones.
It felt like a dream at first,
to finally have someone care enough to touch me.
I see the flickers of the Carmel Haired’s rented Volkswagen.
and I see the smoke signals that
the Florida license plate set off in my head.
like the receding hairline wasn’t enough
like the GoLo parking lot wasn’t enough
like watching my high school shrink in the rear view mirror wasn’t enough.
I’ll never feel smaller than I did, laid on the bed
with him towering over me.
I am waiting for the day that I can
reach into my head and wreck that super 8 projector.
I want to be able to
relocate the wildfire in my head to my heart.
I want to be able to feel
the projector crush under my combat boots.
I want to feel like Debbie Harry.
I want to feel like Lilly.
I want to use the wildfire to destroy every motel 6
I don’t want any other teenaged girl
to feel the way I did,
only feeling worthy when held to a motel mattress
by an older man’s hand.
