You get tired of writing about yourself,
so you turn to explosives. It's a hobby. Fire,
better than being forgotten. Flames uncap their peaks,
you whirl them around your waist, take a stab
at swallowing them. Perfume your hair red.
Color your lips galaxy.
All your friends are supernovas, rockstars,
or they eat vegetables only and are immortal.
Everything is as separate as freckles.
Sulk on the mousehide chair, write at the desk,
breathe in the miasma of sulphur
from the mineshaft under your feet.
One day you will light your last sparkler,
toss it into the lake. Waves of goodbye,
or hello, again. Hello.