When I first learned that’s how you died I was just a girl and though that to put my head in the oven meant I’d literally cook my head. Not me, one. Of course not me.
If I crawled into the space underground would the rats nibble my toes first or crawl into my yawning mouth? Would they wait until I’m gone and only my shell is left? Ones, not my. Of course not my.
You came back from the damp underneath, only to end up here. Does one always have to go back around? Circling into domesticity and flames.
Not flames. Nothing quite so brash. Quietly wisp away.
I’m sorry for my jealous pen. I wanted to be you but I was too unrefined, and now always too old.