On fact, in fire
Your forest is on fire. The forest is your body. The fire has been growing for too long; the forest longer.
Nurse one tells you: though tests show next to nothing, she suspects what develops is a fiery crystal lattice. Stop eating greens, put lemon in your water, wait.
No one tells you: how long to wait.
Nurse two tells you: nurse one was wrong. The hose you’ve been fighting this fire with is full of gasoline. She thinks yours might be the worst-case blaze, the one you found online, the inferno you inferred. Hands you a tissue and leaves the room. She is cold yet this brings no relief. The tissue goes up in smoke.
Nurse three confirms the conflagration: indeed, your forest is on fire.
— — —
There is no extinguisher, no emergency exit. You read: the only way out is to restrict fuel. It takes too long, but you give up hops and limes and sex and hot sauce and you get better at this but you do not get better.
Some days you feel worse.
Some days you believe the comparisons people make to well-known wildfires with scarier names. Cancer is a water sign, cystitis is a fire.
Strangers on the www share their feelings in forums. They say their flames are like yours. They share: other complaints their fires create, failed treatment plans, recipes for low-acid potato salad. Instead of community, you feel more alone.
How do they know? Is their red your red? Is their blue your blue? Do they feel the sharp, the dull, do they ache like you do?
— — —
You forget. You remember. You forget. You’re an ember. Distracted, then present, your forest is still on fire.
— — —
It’s a secret but it’s not.
So you tell people, blatant, flagrant, ‘my forest is on fire. I am on fire, in flames, I am inflamed and untrained.
I did not sign up for this.
I am fighting my own fire and I fear I will lose.’
They listen. They cannot see the flames but you sense they feel the heat you radiate. Are you too warm to be around? Are you the ‘hot patate’ in the room?
No one knows what to say, least of all you. There are only so many words for ‘burn.’ Combustion is a reaction. Why are you on fire?
— — —
Tomorrow is your birthday. At 23, you have collected many traumas.
Nurse four validates: too much pain.
Fact, Gemini is an air sign and air does not combat fire well. You will put candles in a waffle and blow them out anyway.
Close your eyes and count your blessings: a tiny niece named Ruby. Huckleberry milkshakes. The garden spread across your balcony. Tonight’s new moon. Floating on your back down the river.
Fact, wood still burns on water. Swim anyway.
