THIRD DEGREE BURNS

When your smile

flashes and burns

across my cheek,

I drown in flames.

Immolation

is not fun,

but an earnest

third degree suicide

dressed in red and yellow,

the afterglow lingering

behind the lids of eyes

squeezed tight against

the onslaught.

I am a moth

drawn to the flickering

of our gasoline lives

poured out,

mingled.

Reviews

[mae]

this reminds me of a boy I once knew. that's all I must say.
beautifully written. I love the comparison you used here. the second stanza is just wow. thank you for the write. -mabel