The smoke billows from the forest and I eat every last drop. There’s embers behind my eyes and I’m just getting started. Watch the streetlights burst as I walk down a path of hot coals. I combust like the match you struck in the dark. All it takes is one flick of the wrist and the entire thing goes up in flames. I breath fire like a scream and you hear it like a lullaby.

I’m not the things I burn: I’m the aftermath. I’m the smoke. I’m the char. I’m the embers that you hold under your tongue for safekeeping. I warned you not to get burned, but you danced in the kerosine like a promise. Let’s fall like the ashes and see who can stand back up faster.

Lately I’ve been thinking about your parents garage. How the rafters smelled like rotting pine and creaked loudly in the wind. They looked so tall from where we sat, but it doesn’t scare me as much anymore. It doesn’t scare me as much anymore. It doesn’t scare me as much anymore.

The days are stretching themselves out past the moonlight. That glow is hidden because the sun is fucking selfish. The sun doesn’t let flames glow as sharply. The sun competes for its light. Still, I hold no grudge.

And when you smell that burning pine, you’ll think of me. I know you will. I’m the phantom pain of a limbless being. I’m the stillness in the air before a storm. Im the smoke you keep tasting. I’m the smell of burning skin. I’m the blurry hue above the flames. It’s all considered a dream if you believe in nothing. Wake up, you’re burning. AMT