It's still a charming thought
and for moment, it's nice to
pretend that you mean every
word you've ever said.
But that's asking a lot,
for someone like you.
So I expect nothing less,
but nothing more, too.
And so when you see me
and my forests ablaze,
my hand on my waist.
Your tongue, my name.
Just come back to the
moment you knew
that I couldn't be contained
by someone like you.
YOU ARE READING
THE ARSONIST
Poetry"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.
