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.