You hold the tip of the stick over

the flame and wait for the marshmallow to

melt with pain.

Next light a candle and lick your

fingers before they pass over the wick.

Did you feel it?

Did it burn?

I know you own many books

on the Salem witches and their bonfires.

You read them when no one’s home.

You press cigarettes to your arm when you think

you’re alone.

I asked you once if you thought

that you were a witch.

You thought I was a child.

You started closing your blinds. And maybe that’s better.

When you went missing, it was like you were already gone.

Poetry

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