The point of a lit match
against a firelighter
that squeaks and burns up like Styrofoam,
the flame catching hold of
newspaper fists
beneath a scaffolding of twigs and logs.
The fire crackles, pops, smokes
through the empty room.
On the rug,
I stare into the flitting flames,
my scar coming awake with the heat.
I stoke the blaze,
jabbing with a heavy poker,
forcing the white ash from the log edges to fall
away,
aiming for an inferno,
something to drink me up.
I have never been so alone.