I’m sorry I was raised to be fire. But the thing about a fire is you cannot put it out unless you kill it. You can knock the breath out of me, but I will be burning until my very. last. one. This is me. I will always be illuminating. And i shall fall in love with all of the rubble I have destroyed and all the forests that have ignited my being. But at night, I dream of fireproof vests and midnight picnics and what we did not become.
We are all made up of stories.
The most beautiful and tragic
happenings are etched into my skeleton.
Tales of love and despondency are in the
creases of my body. Moments of weakness
and heartbreak are mirrored in my eyes.
Wars will always be lost inside me.
I may not be a victor everyday, but nothing
could ever douse the fire in my soul.
I was taught to run away from flames,
from the lambent sparks that dance naked
on my skin when we touch, those tiny flickers
foretell a future of wildfires.