Pyromaniac

The pyromaniac plays with fire for the burns,
Only to wake up smothered in a hospital.
She’ll rise slowly
So the nurses won’t see.
There, she’ll dig out the matches from under her skin,
And let them lick her fingertips
Let them kiss her scars.
They’ll dance against her tongue when she swallows them.
They’re falling,
To shutter against her ribcage.
Then,
She will bury the spent stubs back in her veins,
And coax her frame through the doorway,
Smiling,
Asking for water.