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i was always told
that my pyromania would one day
consume me -

and i never thought anything of it
til you lit bonfires behind my smile and kissed
all my oxygen away.

burning low,
burning slow,
you dressed us in torchwood and
danced with me
through all our empty rooms;

but the fires would take us
in the night, hurting
our cold fingertips like we deserved
to be punished for wanting
something as safe
as a quiet warmth.

and so we decided who to burn, love -
me or you.

i'd already run through
so many wildfires, and your skin
had never even known ash -

so i played martyr, and you played
nice, i
nursed my scars and told
myself, i
had already healed through so much -
this would be just another
path of coals i would walk alone.

i hope you think of me
every time you strike a match.