Contrary to Popular Grief

There he is…

Fucking the mouths of severed heads.

Why is he so thirsty?

Bacteria groping for some kelvin to cuddle with.

No eyes required.

Attracted to the primal warmth.

Why is he…

A vampire?

Dividing and conquering.

He swallows the arms and the legs whole.

Forgetting to chew.

Left starving.

Destined to feed again.

He’s been taught to drown his food in salt.

Missing the flavour entirely.

Feeding on the empty calories and dehydrating.

Of course he’s going to feed again.

He’s. So. Thirsty.

You are that which I cannot be, that’s the nature of the game.

I have acknowledged myself as pure flame and placed shame around the deep blue black receptivity.

Afraid of obliteration by abyssal pressure I have taken to climbing to higher ground, burning the trees as I go.

Inferno hearts blaze as my throat drys and I call for more fire to quench my molten glazed eyes.

Tonsils red.

Flame is useful and the pointed power is addicting, but even forest fires know to rest and allow the rain to do its bidding.

We don’t know what’s down there. It’s scary to swim without seeing the floor, or remembering from whence you originated, but when I’m down where the lights are off and sound tickles down the back of my tongue… I can’t help but marvel at how the disorientation feeds my veins and the cool of that darkest womb wraps me without expectations.

My heart is blue.

My pussy is wet.

I don’t know what it means.

But to have the cinders cool and be suspended in the cold is to be filled and fed.

I think.

I’ll stay down here a bit… before swimming back up through the membrane to spit a spout of fire calmly out from my tongue and laying on my back in the ocean waves I’ll enjoy the warm mist as it comes back down to sting my face.

Fire can float if it so chooses.

Contrary to popular grief.