Playing With Matches

She takes
from everything
you say
the one word
bound in fire
and fans
the glowing embers
heaped
on the grate of your lives -

Just one word
and all your memories
are billowing smoke,
cold white ash blown
by her sudden wind;

later, she blames you
for burning down the house
for failing to call 911,
for playing
with matches.

Henceforth:

I will not be

the wound
you seek
to bandage,
the scraped knee
you need to kiss.
I will not be
a scab you pick at,
healing over
into a rough scar
salved with Shea butter,
vitamin E or sex.
I will not be
the useless middle
of a candle you burn
at both ends,
or the dark sky
that allows your star to shine.
I will not be
made small
in order for you to feel big,
will not allow
my silence
to give greater echo
to your voice,
will not allow
pieces
of a broken heart
to become
the bricks
of your new world,
held together
with a mortar
of dried blood and tears.

Song to Myself

You were my favorite
You were the day
Sunrise and sunset
Moon on its way
Coming together
Falling apart
You were my favorite
You were my heart