Matches

My paper goes on unscorched

The fire rises and my body drops with exhaustion

I am tired, but I cannot sleep

My veins are the tunnels that shield enemy warfare

There is a war inside me and it’s pouring out

My seat which was once wood has turned warm

It is metal that carries the outside fire inside, through my skin and burns

Cold and hot,

I am bleeding

I bleed in matches

They fall out of me like rain from clouds and water from icicles;

Loud and quiet,

Slow and fast

They are sparked from the air inside my room

This fire is the war inside me

I am inside myself

But still my paper goes on unscorched

It is perched; blank and white upon my wooden desk

A desk that once matched my now fiery chair

The desk burns, but does not break

My pen is waiting,

For a moment I think the ink inside bubbles

But still it does not write

My bed is alight with flames and begs me toward it

I am melted into this fiery chair and the matches inside me multiply

They weigh me down and I cannot move through the flood of them

The fire grows

But still my paper goes on unscorched

The moon is sweet

A cool breeze on my face

It sends unearthly pure light

A relief from the fire that has burnt my eyes

It does not see my paper guarded by an army of fire and surrounded by waves of matches

Still my paper goes on unscorched

It is a bright and loud night

But no words ignite my paper

So I burn in fury and letters

Branded by ideas and thoughts

There are too many which have melted together

None are left but a desk which burns, but does not break,

A pen that bubbles, but does not write

And paper that smells of smoke, but still will not catch