Heat

I am cold, but I don't want to start a fire tonight.

Metaphor of my life.

I am cold, so I'll crank the heater of my 

anger and bitterness because

without it there is no life, 

excuse me, light, in me.

No heat in me.

Starting a proper fire takes effort and I have no

stacks of peaces or even a small kindling of happiness not

even a crumpled newspaper memory of joy.

I am cold and I am a downpour and nothing will light and
believe me

I've tried I

scrape off my tissue paper skin and

watch it curl in on itself, maybe,

hoping it will catch. Nothing.

I am raw from effort, from

trying to light healing and all

I can muster is the 

automated whirrr of my curdling emotions.

It will have to be enough.

I would rather have heat than cold,

a life without light. 

One day,
maybe

my life will be a

ROARING BONFIRE

and I'll be raw

from the scorching beauty

rather than the

scraping to stay

lit.