I never liked candles at my friends’ birthday parties as a kid.
I always moved away from the table,
fearing that as they blew it out
the flame would only transfer rather than disappear
and I would find my face awake with heat.

In middle school I was still afraid,
but made myself out to be fascinated.
I centered my science projects around flame
and became comfortable using long lighters
though I still wouldn’t touch a match.

Somehow growing into adulthood it managed to flip
intrigued by fire
yet now avoiding water
High school nightmares followed middle school trauma
drowning as much a fear as revealing my own body
so I hide myself in layers,
count the places clothing covers
and in my anxiety and exhaustion
barely manage to shower.

I should not be weak to water.
It didn’t have to be this way.
So underneath all of this fear
underneath the thought spirals that suffocate
I nurture burning rage, declaring
it’s you who made me this way.

It might not really be, but who cares?
At least my childhood wouldn’t have been so trapped
at least my memories wouldn’t be a trap
that I fall into, time and time again
replaying your comments
replaying your movements
replaying what I had no control over
forced to experience
forced to do
and each family member I turned to for help
wouldn’t meet my eye.

So I hope you suffocate here,
as I flip this match between my fingers.
What happens to me next, I hardly care
but I can’t wait to watch your home be erased
to hear the wind howling over scorched earth
and say, quietly,
you did this to yourself.