On the day of the explosion
your fire coated me like paint.
It left the skin recoiling in pain
and the skin’s body winced
like a lobster from the cool recess of a tank
suddenly cooking on the stove.
Your damage is done—
now my harlequined skin
is thirsty and only the river
Phlegethon can quench it.
You had resigned yourself to the wicked ways and
I think you liked the darkness.
But lights turn on and space gets filled.
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