My parents were arsonists whose touch was just as searing and viral as the lick of a flame.
Watching the flames consume the house I want to live in for as long as possible, have children in and call home until I’m carried away to be buried, I wonder why I never learned from them. All of the rooms are empty while all of their contents are cinders, and with knees to my chest and my arms around them I can say that I’ve never felt more alone.
Every time I’ve worked myself back up I’ve discovered, when their skin blisters and the demeanor cools in an attempt to compensate, that I’ve just been fanning the flames and standing even taller in a pillar of fire.
So, sitting here contained, where I can’t bring shame or disrupt anything, is what’s become of me: the scourge of the forest and the pin out of the grenade.