Flames burn skin, not souls

2am steps on concrete, today’s echo covering me, woven into ripped sheets, torn cotton attempting to strangle daydreams.

Night comes at last to my eyes, sprinkling glass dust on me as an outcast. Worlds turn. Planets exist. Alone. What do they wait for.

I have my head in a book. Mixed in with semi-colins while she has her head in the oven. I am her, on pages of charcoal I become tangible; solid.

And in parentheses I say, “Flames burn skin, not souls. You need hell for that. Here I am.”