woodpile

i. he visits girls like buildings, brick-burning, wood-lighting, kissing them to ashes. he set me on fire and i might still be burning.

ii. what do you do when your hair’s like smoke and your smile’s like sparks? he made me bright, he made me blinding, he made me dangerous. i’m so beautiful, but now he won’t touch me.

iii. i saw him yesterday. there were flames at his fingertips and embers hidden in his skin. our hands almost touched like catching fire and i tried to smile at him like gasoline but he wouldn’t even look at me.

iv. his eyes tell me it will burn out. the set of his jaw tells me it will simmer down. i’m not sure he knows he’s a match and i’m a woodpile.

v. here’s to burning.

—  some were made to burn // abby, day 176