I
Every time I get a tooth ache or a piercing infected or wake up with a random bruise
I find myself poking, prodding, playing with the source, as if i can make the pain ooze
out on command, feel it all when it's convenient and leave it when it's not, use
up all the sensation when it's under my control so I never have to worry I'll lose
that little bit of confinement that keeps every flare from sparkling the nearest fuse.
II
You're playing with fire like Portia:
pretending that coals don't hurt ya,
that holding this rage won't burn ya,
that there's no stopping your inertia.
After everything you overcame,
scorched and charred and torn and maimed,
still blazing forth, still in the game,
they'll remember this when they speak your name:
Prometheus couldn't hold your flame.
III
How many rhymes
and how many lines
and how many songs
played how many times
do you think it will take
to erase
the sores on your mind
and stifle the flame lit
by your pain
enough to recage it,
enough to contain it?
For how many days
and in how many ways
and with how many
ambiguous things you say
do you think you can
hold off the decay
of your delicate,
flammable veins?
Is your blood red
from oxygen
or the magma held
just below your skin?
IV
"All you do is burn."
"All you do is burn."
"All you do is burn."
"All you do is burn."
"All you do is burn."
"All you do is burn."
