fingers threading through flames,
i try to keep my eyes unaverted while
canopy and humidity coats my skin,
hands dripping, bravado slipping,
although one could argue i had none
initially, like you'd bite back (literally),
while heat licks at the singeing wounds to my pride
across my throat, along my jawline,
drawing out sighs in your wake while
nettles sting softly down my thighs,
trapped whimpers escaping through
openings gone unnoticed, losing
all focus, drowning in(ferno of)
self-reprimand and
-consciousness lost
...

There is no point
       these days
No joy from anything
   these days
No emotion
             these days
No anything
       these days.

That afternoon, I remember it well:
Mother screams at me
for not displaying proper sympathy;
she cries
at my lack of human emotion.

I want to screech,
         and laugh,
  and yell,
and thrash my body about,
   and inform her
that asking me to feel anything
    toward anyone
is like asking a paralyzed body
to dance.

Instead, I stand there
and watch her sob;
gaze unaverted,
silently vowing to remain.

I thought that was a nice thing to do.