Matches

I play with fire.

A matchbox in the front pocket of all my bags,

Incense and lighters in every drawer I own,

enough candles to hold a vigil,

and enough kindling to burn cities.

Ask anyone who’s known me longer than a week and they’ll tell you I’m a pyromaniac

Granted, they might also tell you I’m maniacal

Or manic

Or spinning towards insanity on a floating rock in space

While everyone else goes on their 9-5,

menial, day to day, one step at a time, one day at a time, keep going until you crash lives.

They crash and I burn.

It might be the heat.

I’ve always liked the warmth fire gives,

but if given the choice,

I’d stand in the snow bare naked before I walk an hour in the desert.

I surround myself in blankets,

fuzzy socks,

warm showers,

warm people,

and yet something about the single spark of a stricken match is so much more endearing.

Perhaps it’s the consumption.

Fire is hungry,

all encompassing,

gaining insatiable lust for whatever it can reach,

and yet even with a mighty fortress laid to rest as ashes and embers,

There is just enough energy left for another round.

A beautiful and unburdened blaze.

Maybe it’s the damage.

The definition of fire is a destructive burning.

And indeed, the damage is deafening, but there’s something else there.

Seattle was devoured by a spark that grew ambitious,

and was rebuilt on top of the old.

A phoenix lights itself aflame in order to start over.

A forest grows better from ash now and then than it would from fertilized soil.

But still,

if I hold my lit match between my lips,

and allow it to do as it pleases,

My mouth may never open again.