Wash over me colour like, words that have fallen from your lips and seeped through my skin. Like whiskey on your mouth that has wet my neck. Or creases on my clothing from where you held it. It flashes and flickers through my mind every time I close my eyes. Every time I breathe in. You keep thinking that’s a bad thing. I don’t see how that much fire could be a bad thing. How grabbing a fistful of my hair and forcing me to feel, and peeling my eyes open could be anything but birth?
If you burn me, it won’t be because I didn’t walk straight into the blaze, hands stretched forward, welcoming the burn. Welcoming the hurt – just to feel you.