Controlled Burn

Kevin and I called it quits.

We say we’re just friends now

like it’s a firebreak,

like it stops anything

from sparking up between us.

We keep making heat.

We shouldn’t,

but our bodies don’t remember

why they’re supposed to stop.

We are too good at this—

skin on skin,

the kind of fire that convinces you

nothing else matters

until you’re charred.

After, I swear I’ll be careful.

After, I swear I’ll be cool.

But then I light another match

and act surprised

when I get burned—

because endings take control,

and I keep choosing wildfire.

I say I want peace,

then do things that scorch my soul—

a sharp word,

a boundary crossed on purpose,

a bridge lit from the middle

just to see who flinches first.

This isn’t love anymore.

It’s heat without warmth.

Fire without a place to live.

Endings aren’t infernos.

They’re quieter than that.

They’re the moment you stop feeding the flame,

even though your hands are still holding kindling.

So this is me setting it down—

the match, the wood, the wanting,

the story where we were still smoldering.