Lit

Now I see—it was just a spark.

I wonder if it ever felt different to you,

Or was I just another crumpled newspaper

Fed to the flames?

I thought we stoked it together, with secrets.

But now I see the beguiling—wit and whisky.

I can’t help but question my own light.

Was it always my choice?

It is difficult to see

The choice in a scheme. Were all conartists

Licking charred wounds—there’s no foresight

When we hardly see ourselves.

Yet I am no longer willing

To get involved with men who are content

With painting me a question mark in ash.

Now I see—matches are plentiful and easily lit.