Burnt Napkins

I was born blistering,

not soft and pale like my skin,

but sun, pulsing beats of internal flares,

a flame disguised as a daughter,

simmering in hand knit cardigans.

They tried to gray wash me,

wrap me with ribbons of millennial ash,

stitching seams with pristine, white, thread,

shackle the hem to black mirrors.

Here. THIS fits.

but I am not your quiet, easy Sunday morning.

I am the hymn rewritten in minor key,

the candle in the window they fear

is too close to the drapes,

scorching the lace fringed air

with three wicked whispers of smoke,

"Can't you just... tone down?"

I used to try.

I used to fold myself like linens

in a guestroom closet,

creases so sharp the leading edges

almost vanished.

I curtsied, smiled, set the table,

but the napkins kept catching flame.

So I frame my lips with red,

a testifying freedom

refusing to shrink

into particles of opaque fog,

choosing to embody color,

undaunted,

unapologetic,

and ablaze.