Oh I just now saw this anon. Thank you. You know it hate saying things are “complicated,” but there may be no better was to describe this mess we are in. Though, right now I don’t think there’s any other mess I would rather be in.
My touch can start brush fires.
My fingers are erect matchsticks,
the kind your mother warned about.
My petaled lips spark against yours
like flint against steel.
My volatile breath, an overcast of smoke
creeping from the belly of my throat.
My twisted tongue douses your chalky skin
with fuel, a gasoline spreading to your logged limbs.
I leave your organs to curdle,
and by morning glow,
you’re nothing but a burn victim.