You’re looking at me as though I’m enough
to strike your match, hit home;
and it’ll devour you, lungs first
as you watch me, your worst.
Frankenstein, you and
I, your pocket litter.
Ephemera balled in your jeans –
Picasso of your genes.
You sud yourself neck-deep in
lemon scented hand soap,
still hold out one last lathered hope
that you will see me without gasoline.
There’s a dishwasher between
what you say and what I mean,
and though you Brillo your forearms raw
and scour out your washed up wrists,
I’m the pentimenti drying under your skin
that rise as you clench your fists.
For those that strike matches