molotov the memory

Drag my feet across the space of time. Down the rungs of laddered rooms. So many doors. Most are locked now. Soles pricked by evergreen. Every remembrance, a splinter. Subcutaneous, then deeper. Hypodermic nostalgia. Pin-cushioned and pine-needled. I could pull them out. But relief is not found in extinguishing bushfires. This wooden heart needs to burn free. Poplar, ash, maple…there is a forest within me. Limbs upon limbs draping and dripping and gracing skin that falls away when the weight is too much. And the lightness never seems to last beyond three months. Appendages on oaken tombs.
Endless hallways.
Sealed doorframes.
This winter is eternal,
and my timber…a pyre.
Lips pressed to polaroid.
I’ve become a jungle of eulogy.
A thicket on fire.