No-one looks here, anyway.

The match sparks, tempting me.

I run my wrist over the flame,

First pass is painless, warming me.

It was the oven, an easy lie.

The flame grows, then fades.

I strike again, gold sparks loud,

In my silent home.

No-one sees here anyway,

So I hold it still a little longer.

Black hairs frizzle on my thigh.

No-one will see.

My skin, my choice, my pain.

Some people cut themselves, I’ve heard.

I couldn’t use a knife for that.

I light another match.