My hands are black with ash and dust
Burnt matches are in the floor
It stings. They sting. My hands, they sting.
When you blow out the match
Do you see the red glow?
Put that on my skin. My hands will turn red.
They hurt, but they don't bleed.
No one can stop me.
Let me do this.
The ashes are everywhere
The ashes are dark
The aftermath's dark.
YOU ARE READING
Shorts, Poems, and Imagines
Poetry"It's exhausting to fight a war inside your head every single day." -Micki Ann
