My passion’s a furnace, you have no choice but to strip

A poem by Sean Kathryn Bratton

I don’t even know what to say today. Playing victim is coward, not cute. Playing coward is wild, but then to go mute?

I can’t deny myself this sting. But I can’t deny the right to let you be.

I can’t say I’m mad or didn’t see it coming. I can’t say you’re wrong, it’s just a little disturbing.

To change the mirror I must change my face. My face feels stale, but changing day by day.

If I could go back, there’s a lot I’d do different. I’d just stay naked forever, and accept your wet kisses.

I know I pushed you out the door, my inner critic can be hard to ignore.

I know I chose this and you went with my wave. I always create currents, currents that require the brave.

But maybe you’re not ready for this battle, this battle of reading between my lines.

Maybe I should learn to speak up, speak up on time. Next time I will, I’ll be an open book. It’s something I’ve learned, practice is all it took.

My fire gets warm, my ashes get messy. Two things we both don’t mind, if I remember correctly.

My passion’s a furnace, you have no choice but to strip. Strip away every layer, bit by bit.

You like to play with fire, if I do recall. You like the way it makes you feel, you love to make me crawl.

Up the walls, around the door, on my knees as I beg for more. What do you have for me? What can put me out? We both know this answer, I’ll wait with my mouth.

It’s fire and ice, the sun and the moon. Its opposites attract, it’s, “Another round before noon?”

Not to sound cocky, or sink you with this hook. But there’s no fire as hot as mine, it’s the best by any book.