Box Full Of Matches

I've skated through this
torrid life
a pyro

stench of gasoline everywhere
ready and willing to ignite
to burn down in a blaze of fucking glory

I have this neat trick
place the match head down
on the striker
using the thumb of my left hand to hold it
flick it with my right

it flares
a shooting flame that dazzles
through the air

they come closer
to see the spectacle
unaware
unsuspecting

combusting on impact
I hold them as they igniite
my arms and chest a
scar spangled tapestry

I huff the scent of fuel
and melted flesh
retching on the stench

but I need them to burn
so I can feel alive in the bonfires
of lust

because I don't know what love is

sometimes I think
I see sparks of it
in embers as they
float away