I swore this ember would be my last,
My mantra of the most recent while.
I have lighters for digits
With flint fingertips carved by your words. 
My veins are filled with ethanol
And butane-
One fire sparks the other,
One fire sparks another.

I met you when I was a child in woman’s skin,
Playing dress up with my own appendages. 
You settled me in to your sashay,
Taught me to be a puppet without strings, 
Rocked me while moving my lips to speak your moans. 

I sewed you clothes and spun thread out from my lips.
You called me a spider, but I was building you a home
While you were teaching me to remember your hands,
Knives used to etched out my fingernails.

I saw silk ashes two months ago, little piles of fine gray dust,
And found you setting embers to the foundations of our home. 
I skittered away, because
You taught me how to move
But were no longer showing me where to go. 

The smell of smoke reminds me of you.
Each day I spark up a small memory,
Trying to chip off the flint memoirs you have given. 
I hope to char myself deeply enough
To never spin silk again.


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