10 June 2013 § 1 Comment
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
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.