You said you wish you had left me on that island.
You wish you hadn’t extended your efforts to help me come home to you,
and I said back that I wish I had died on that island but thankfully sometimes wishes are just that.
If you take the time to make a wish amidst chopping chunks out of your long hair like me, you care.
If you have the soul to take scissors to your friendly neighbours: skin and clothes, you care.
I care to be wrapped under my lavender sheets; in my bedroom that I have worked to fill with treasures, like that of a mad women hoarding skillets in her cave, I like her am a woman who lacks the ability to behave, in a way deemed normal.
Fill and fill like the jewels a tiny bird takes home to her nest so that she can walk in comfort if only for the count of four… like I danced, hips awkward, on that island, before.
It doesn’t take a monster to assemble the beast with two backs, or three, or four.
My sunburnt chest does not suggest that I am going to hell; my heart is pure although I am shameful and do not live well, so they tell.
How I feel today will not always be my way I hope. Although a hope can sometimes be just that.
Burning limbs are as wishes and whims are, they are just that.
The parts of me that burn will stay with me eternally.