if i don't write this
i'll regret it. this

feeling: a firefly in my
hand, fingers closed.
not mine- i can only hold
it. i can wear a
costume; play a role until
i forget it's not
a game. i want to start
a fire – burn my
clothes and hair, watch it
grow from a spark.
choking on the ashes of the stage
as i drag out this act's
demise in viking funeral,
but i want
some soot smeared on this
porcelain reputation.

strip me of each syllable
i curl up
and hide inside. repeat my
names until
they are revealed as empty
noise. and

when it's over, will you
still be here
to breathe hot life into
my lungs, my
blood, or was your house
just another
doorstep for me to collapse
upon, with empty
eyes and broken poetry
rolling blindly