I was born with matchsticks in my mouth. as a child I played with fire, I didn’t know they’d try to put me out. they told me I should try to blaze less brightly, they said they didn’t like the way I burned… they dampened and they stamped till I was ashes: like some kind of shabby phoenix I returned and I returned (but) every time a man kicked through my embers, checking for the flicker of a flame that dared to try to stay alive despite him: every time I held my fire to blame. I was just a tiny light when they first choked me, smothered by the cruelty that they told me was desire, by the next time I was barely even burning (but) it only takes the smallest spark to start a raging fire. truth be told I don’t know how I’m still here, I don’t know how this fire survived the flood; truth be told I thought that they had killed me, but I was born with petrol in my blood.
