I wasn’t pretty before—

all thin-limbed and thin-lipped,

brittle hands and a razor smile.

I was devious— I still am.

Before, I stole your hand,

pressing it painfully into mine.

 

Did I strike a match and

drop it down my throat

like a pebble down a well?

 

That must be why

I’m on fire,

my nerves

bathed in a

drugging,

soporific heat

that it too much and never enough.

 

No. We share this fire.

It is in your eyes,

their reflection of me.

                   There I crackle

                   impishly,

                   sparking at a touch.

Your hands

are feverish

in their lazy caress of my

collarbone.

 

It is on your lips,

                       ready to grin

at the world,

                       to give them hell.

 

Just add oxygen

and a well-timed kiss.