I lit a match, but like most first-time matches,
it didn't light. A book of matches rarely works alone.
It was hell, being a match. A head forever on fire.
I visited the ward once, then more than once.
They wrote my name on a chalkboard. I was never to be
alone, an immense desire to burn my scrubs with me in them.
I saw myself as I thought they saw me: master of artifice.
I desired no lightness; I'd leave nothing behind, no mess.
I'd start small, a match: a graphite pillar the size of an insect.
You have no idea. I'd be free as a shot rabbit.

Shenandoah Sowash

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