home in my own skin

Watch your step-
I tend to spark.

My life has been built out of matchbooks.
My childhood was wildfires before hopscotch,

so I leap over fences with skinned knees,
my emotions in my back pocket.

I look for exit signs instead of open doors.
Learn to memorize escape routes

but not how to read a map.
I need to build a new home with a fire extinguisher,

but I never took up welding.
I glue together matchsticks

and pull splinters of parental expectations
from under my nails.

Over and over again, set myself on fire
with snap jerk of my tongue,

and stomp out smoldering insecurities.
Keep a bucket of water near the door

to douse out my mother’s flash fire mouth
and wash off my exe’s soot covered names.

Be careful,
I tend to spark,

and I tire of singed fingertips
by matchbook childhoods and kindling relationships.

Working to learn the blueprints
of deep sighs and shoes by the door,

I want to understand home sweet home
in my own skin.