It was just as you might expect:
I blistered; I howled; I leaked
insufficient moisture to extinguish myself.
As the first of my ashes caught the wind,
the arsonist approached the charred ground
and apologized.
As if I were not cinders now.
As if “I’m sorry” could jumpstart a resurrection.
Next time, I will choose not to be born
in a body that breathes, that wants, that needs.
I will cast myself in iron,
melt and mold myself
into swiftest steel,
severing limbs and razing hearts
easy as lying.
Next time, I will not fear the inferno
that rises like a whirling gypsy,
inviting me to her burnished arms:
next time, I will love her,
and she will love me back.