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.
why iphones gotta take two million years to turn back on after they die like you plug em in and you’re all ready to start texting again but they’re like “nope. i gotta take some time for myself. figure out who i am. you hurt me too much the last time. let me think.”