So, sometimes I write poetry. And I'm terribly shy about it, so I don't usually (read: ever) share it , but I'm happy with this one. Please be gentle with me.

PYROPHILIA

Of the elements
earth, water, and air,
fire has always been my sign.
I always stood in the south,
bore the risk of conflagration,
of promethean punishment,
with both hands.

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And in the inferno
where blood boils
where heat hates me
but my desire for it never wanes,
everything I touch
with pyretic hands
becomes engulfed,
leaving ash,
cold, grey, and brittle,
its aftermath fertile –
for those who know how to use it.

In the inferno,
immaterial yet energetic,
flames lick and taste the air,
curl like ribbons round me,
febrile fingers,
that clutch and burn,
a wild dancer,
form from seeming chaos,
conversion and purification,
protection and danger.

Fire has always been my sign.
My two-faced goddess,
my compass point,
by which I know where home is.
(I was always getting lost.)
Between intoxicating air, heady and perfumed,
rich earth, fecund and nourishing,
cooling water, fire's twin in enmity,
here I lay the stone,
the heart,
the seat of the blood,
crimson and black.