I play with fire.
A matchbox in the front pocket of all my bags,
Incense and lighters in every drawer I own,
enough candles to hold a vigil,
and enough kindling to burn cities.
Ask anyone who’s known me longer than a week and they’ll tell you I’m a pyromaniac
Granted, they might also tell you I’m maniacal
Or manic
Or spinning towards insanity on a floating rock in space
While everyone else goes on their 9-5,
menial, day to day, one step at a time, one day at a time, keep going until you crash lives.
They crash and I burn.
It might be the heat.
I’ve always liked the warmth fire gives,
but if given the choice,
I’d stand in the snow bare naked before I walk an hour in the desert.
I surround myself in blankets,
fuzzy socks,
warm showers,
warm people,
and yet something about the single spark of a stricken match is so much more endearing.
Perhaps it’s the consumption.
Fire is hungry,
all encompassing,
gaining insatiable lust for whatever it can reach,
and yet even with a mighty fortress laid to rest as ashes and embers,
There is just enough energy left for another round.
A beautiful and unburdened blaze.
Maybe it’s the damage.
The definition of fire is a destructive burning.
And indeed, the damage is deafening, but there’s something else there.
Seattle was devoured by a spark that grew ambitious,
and was rebuilt on top of the old.
A phoenix lights itself aflame in order to start over.
A forest grows better from ash now and then than it would from fertilized soil.
But still,
if I hold my lit match between my lips,
and allow it to do as it pleases,
My mouth may never open again.
About the Creator
Lily Winter
Hello! I am a twenty-year-old university student and avid writer. To learn more about me, check out my instagram-
Personal: @lily_winter4722
Business: @lily_winter_writes
Comments (2)
Wow, Lily. This was something else - well written.
It was interesting to read. Loved it ❤️