more about girls and fire


We tried to get high in the bathroom. I tried to cut your bangs again, missed and hit an eye.

I still remember the smell of your arms, my ex-sis, your hair like flammable paper dolls.

Water isn’t always the answer.

We fell to the bed, a thin tangle of limbs: the dog jumped on but we were thirteen, too tired to push him off, though he sweated and his breath burned.

I chewed the tips of your braids while you flicked your father’s lighter. You called me an animal.

“It’s a sign, It’s a sign,” the furniture sang.

Piles of hay in the stable, dry and crisp as paper, handy tinder.

You liked to gush like a stewardess, “You will find the exits here and here.” We floated together until they separated us.

In the tv shows, horses run back into the fire unless they’re blindfolded.

You made me close my eyes and guess what you were doing, your room moist from the leaking water bed.

You said you were training it to talk. I said it was not yet housebroken.

You were the pauses, the gazes, the mascara that never washed off.

You ask when I’ll be finished with you.

Were you always trying to put me out?


4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Rebecca Loudon
    Mar 19, 2012 @ 21:51:06

    Oh god this is fabulous.


  2. pegs=legs=who?
    Jun 19, 2012 @ 12:31:09

    so beautiful – so FULL – frighteningly, searingly FULL – makes the heart leap in many directions at once, touched by fire and water, memories singing in furniture, the beauty you evoke of love lost, known; the sadness of wondering…


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