the one where the pyromaniac drinks a glass of water

i lit my hair on fire
this evening
and smelled burnt marshmallows
condense to a syrup
in the cotton-squall of my hair.
rising to the occasion,
I pincered my thumb and the fore-
finger and squashed the flame,
burning a bump into my knuckle
that I would later scrape
against the scythe
of my nail,
devastating my equilibrium,
trashing my polished composure
and eating away
at my half-eaten half-sore
luminous body.