The actual title of this poem is “I Cower Away from Sparks but I’m Already Burning / Matches”. (And the award for emo-est title goes to…) This poem got started in Japan and was finished somewhere between Amsterdam and Brussels a few weeks later.
I bite at the splinters under my nails My calloused fingers chafing against This piece of tinder, trying to make it Burn Hand me a knife: I’ll carve these twigs Sharp enough to puncture a lung I strike them on the rough edge of my thoughts But I don’t know how to make you Burn I’ve made fire from a single spark before Dug my blistered palms through embers Kindled away their charcoal death Pushing helplessly, hoping for diamonds You shiver under my stare I never thought myself cold And I don’t know how to weave Cotton into blankets Words into warmth But I can break my hands Trying without knowledge Skill or belief To turn this dead wood Into matches