written for todays open mic:
the burning is still here
the burning is still here.
still stings like sparks.
still makes itself known when ever my heart beats.
pulse
in my wrists.
the burning is still here.
and i caught them once.
my hands
cupped like a fireplace.
shaking like fear, but not moving like they need this.
like this position is still routine.
like they need to find familiarity to cover them like a blanket
before they go to sleep.
and that will only come from flames.
that will only come from remembering.
back when momma's boyfriend
would take our hands, tender, in his,
and curl our bones like burning paper.
set his anger aflame beneath us,
like all the rage that man had was crammed into his zippo.
he was all fire.
his mouth was a chimney.
his knuckles made of flints.
stinging like sparks
when the strike the logs they're setting on fire.
sticks in your mind, as sharp, as poignant as the smell of butane.
i remember him like a house fire,
hitting each family member like were curtains.
like we're shot glasses of vodka, flammable at best,
like we're all trees to you.
my momma was only kindling to you.
my little brother was only kindling to you.
i was something so much bigger.
he was so much bigger than me.
he was firewood to last a whole winter, and i was only a sapling.
i was only candle sized, then.
now, left as barren, as scorched as the aftermath of arson.
left a pyrophobic.
left with hands like a prayer.
praying to the sun god,
begging to make this inferno stop.
please Ra,
i am too young for cremation.
i caught myself once.
remembering his face.
red as fire.
make my heart beat faster.
feel my pulse in my wrists.
hands like bricks.
cupped like a fireplace.
they used to be as black as coal,
as cracked as the sound of matches.
still as delicate as ash.
when i was younger,
i wore gloves
in the summer time.
to mask the sound of my flesh screaming.
i still have gloves,
still want to wear them.
my flesh doesn't scream anymore,
but the burning is still here.
the burning is still here.
he is still here.
