“I grew up in a family of medicine, my father was a doctor and my mother was a therapist,
my older sister wanted to cure cancer
I grew up in a family learning how to fix people.
but I was born with a gasoline heart and fire in my soul,
and even the doctors didn’t know how to fix me
people are drawn to light and all my life I was told how beautiful the flames in my eyes were
and I cried sparks, begging them
don’t come too close
you don’t want to get burned
I had the intentions of the doctor
to fix and mend and make well
but the actions of the arsonist
leaving burns on the fingertips of the lovers who tried to reach inside my heat-resistant rib cage
didn’t your mother tell you not to play with fire?
My firework bones ache with the weight of gunpowder,
love will be the lighter that will cause me to explode
so light me and run.
watch it burst and shatter, and appreciate the beauty for a few precious seconds
before it fades to nothing and falls to the earth.
but get out of the way; get out of the way,
because all I know is love like a flame that dies out too fast
and all I know is destruction.
I can’t make this fire go out.
my passion for anything and everything is painful, but so very alive.
and even the ocean in my brain cannot douse me,
put me out
because all I would be is ashes.
so let me burn.
let me burn as you watch from a safe
look at the matchstick girl with bittersweet awe,
so bright but so alone
i’ll continue to write these words with my wooden fingers, until my heart catches the paper
alight and my words twist into black smoke
gone, coughing and choking on the destiny of no one ever reading
what goes on inside the heart of the girl on fire.
and to the brave souls who come towards me with my flames reflected in their shining love-struck eyes
I will stare back and open my charred lips,
flames licking from the corners of my mouth and red-hot tongue, telling them,
didn’t your mother tell you not to play with fire?”