There is a fire in my heart.
But it will not spread.
It is a low flame gathering at the base,
burning the roof of my heart to a crisp.
The life of my flesh, the only river that returns,
burnt into the ceiling, like meat forgotten on the grill.
But in this the pulse remains,
That when I die and you think my soul at peace,
You’ll reach into me with blunt knives you bought for cheap
And find inside a piece of me
burning over a fire that won’t recede