ｃa r m i n

And Jesus Christ, you’d think I would’ve learned a thing or two 
about not playing with open fire 
but there are matchsticks where my bones should be 
and my palms can’t stop reaching out for your paper skin.
My veins run with too much gasoline 
and you are a walking wildfire waiting to burn itself to the ground. 
I want to set myself on fire for you. 
I want a body that flickers into life at the touch of a hand 
because darling; I’ve been dead for too long 
and there are sparks ready to ignite under my skin 
if you would just hold me one more time.
And Jesus Christ, you’d think a gunpowder heart and bullets lodged between teeth would have taught me about the dangers of loving something as destructive as you, but I am still spilling ashes from open wounds and following your eyes like a lighthouse.