It seemed a more definite way out.

The clarity of disaster is more satisfying

Than rambling goodness, and all that


There’s a reason people return to

Poison, and I’d rather be a full

Wreck than a half anything.


I wished for pomegranate flames,

And I got them, faint smile briefly

Illuminated. Hair burns.

Unlike everything that chooses to die

Without ceremonial elegance,

To singe and not combust.


I’ve always loved the burnt parts of food.

I take an attraction to scraps.

So when I burnt my locks off,

I didn’t think of throwing them out

Or trimming the ends.

The thoughts came


Late: what will people say?

Who will think me insane?

How many will turn their shifting backs on me?

And I thought, no, no,

I’m leaving that with the ashes.

I’ll leave even you with the ashes.


If people come by to pay their

Stiff respects and jaded sympathies,

To point and say “look, poor girl set

Fire to her own hair,”

I can spit back and say don’t you know,

I won’t die without a flame. I’d take this

Over your watered-down blood

And your poor hollow bones.