I am careful of what I imagine
because at any moment, something
could drop like a discarded
match onto dry grass and words,
and like flames, travel fast.
But I decided I would be honest
with myself, straight from the beginning.
There's something seductively
dangerous about letting myself
fall in line a little more with you.
And at this point, I don't... I don't feel
upset that traces of my former burns
still linger over you like smoke. No, I'm
upset that it seems I haven't learned
the very lesson I have been so fixated
and persistent on learning these last few
years. That my time and particularly my
efforts feel lost, gone. The only traces
are the black ash and soot covering the ground.
YOU ARE READING
THE ARSONIST
Poesía"You set my world on fire, but at what cost?" In THE ARSONIST, this prose-poetry chapbook explores third degree burns, stone faced lovers, and learning to love the blackened trees. New poems released every Thursday at 9PM MST/11PM EST.
