O Melancholy Fire

Embers simmer in my guts

Sacrificial entrails awaiting divination

If I lift my clothes there are scorchings

Saturnine pockmarks unable to fade

I haven’t air enough to fan it

No kindling left

In the flesh to give it food

A sad candle beneath a bell jar

It grows restless and slams itself

Into the walls

If I lift the glass I will be eaten

Flames go up to bring the house down

Longing like claws leaves me in fever

It paces impatient

It wants to get out

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