My apartment building is old and crumbling and the landlord is not kind. We live with light wallets and heavy hearts. It is too easy to leave us.

Give me life-bright girls and sweet, careful boys. The world will sharpen them, send them tumbling to my feet. I will invite them into my kitchen, my bedroom, and when they cut me I will bandage my hands and do it over the next day.

This wildfire-love, passion without trust, is the only thing I can find. It is the only thing I am offered as I live in a building of kindling and ash.

I think love that sparks and burns is overrated. Or dangerous. Fire kills people, destroys houses. I would rather have a friend than a pretty jar of ash. I would rather have a person to call home than butterflies in my stomach and bruises on my neck.

I would rather have a life to live than a story to tell.