I knew you had to be part of my story,
so I began scratching words into paper
under your candlelight
on nights I wanted the wax
to cover the fairy-tale fantasies
in a thick coating
to hide the storyteller’s impossible dreams.
I wanted real,
which is why I forgave you
when you plunged from my dresser,
and set fire to the we
I was creating
in gasoline-tinted ink,
and created a fire so bright,
I had to close me eyes to see it.
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