Fire

Sometimes I feel like apologizing to myself for being fire,
For I am not embers waiting to be gathered and ignited
Or a small pyre kindled for the sake of one-night survival.
Because I am definitely not a volcano waiting to erupt
Or the smoke signals that go off
When you leave your iron on too close to the door.
I am fire.
The kind that could burn all of Southern California
To the ground before plate tectonics
Could ever even think of breaking it away.
Because I’ve never flickered like a candle
Or burned out like a joint.
Everything is too much with me,
And nothing is enough to tame the wildfire
That takes hold within.
But there are nights I wish I was fickle like the rain,
Or as flighty as the wind.
Because I’ve become so inflammable
I am afraid that if anyone lights a match near me
They might set the entire world ablaze by second hand
And I have become so combustible,
Terrified someone someday might accidentally
Touch or even look at me the right way
That I’ll burn so mighty as to leave no fire left.
I am so terribly tempted then to just incinerate myself
To see if there is something that peels away at my core

More than this desire to burn.
But sometimes I wish I was like a lighter
So easy to turn on and off, on and off
Or like a light bulb with the sole purpose of burning
Until exhaustion.

But I am fire

Come hell or high water
It cannot wash me away.