I have tried walking away from this burning home only to realise,
I am the burning.
I am the smoke.
I am the flame.
I am the smell of scorched wood that feeds this shame, it gurgles with a slow burn to the sound of your name.
I am a furnace, wet with the humid heating of this beating heart, a pyre for the monthly funeral.
When you cut me, I bleed fire.
When I bleed fire, you burn