Coals burn and embers churn, and the room is rimmed with smoke.
Soot-stained hands grasp a scuttle and yank a girly clump.
The clump’s hair is cropped night, and its face a full snow moon.
It opens blue bloodless eyes and imagines it speaks truth.
“I have seen it a thousand times"
"I don’t need the fire to feel.”
"Oh don't bother with little me."
"Those burns you have are also mine."
The clump is held above its own oven and charred remains.
“Oh, that's quite close enough; I can feel the burn from here.”
“You see, I know how that feels; we pieces talk, you know.”
Salt water fingers slip, it falls onto its powdered face.
Hair comes alight, screams echo in such sugary delight.
A beautiful pout puckers; ebony bob turns to white.
Lapis waxen eyes drip; the fires dance in the night.
“I already knew this!
"Why have me see the light!?”
"Why keep me pinned down here?
"Your hands are being burned!"
Flame forged craters pit its surface.
Blood squeals as tiny bubbles pop.
Flicker by flicker the pale mask melts and comes to ash.
Hunched mottled ashes give one last squirm and a whine.
"I never knew did I?
"How much can flames burn?"
"We clumps talk you know."
The coal shovel scoops it up and gives one static chant.
Soot-stained hands grasp a scuttle and yank a girly clump.
“I have seen it a thousand times"
"I don’t need the fire to feel.”
The clump plunks down by the feet.
Maybe fire isn't earned.