Friday, December 11, 2009

The Firebug.


Nerves a bag of sharpness, bag made of slowly peeled away hide, sharpness the long slices of glass from a window broken long ago.

Through the window you watched the field burn away. You pulled wind through the jagged mouth of the window and dripped red-black onto the carpet. It was best when the field caught fire first at the edge and then across the middle until the smoke covered all the world, protecting only you, its creator.

It was your hand through the window, your hide peeled back from the knuckle. You, the firebug. It was you all along.

They even blamed you for bleeding.

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