How to Burn

The star is dying

right now.

Too much mass. Too long pretending

balance is virtue

instead of

a temporary ceasefire

with gravity.

~

On my screen a scientist narrates it

gently, like the universe

cares about bedside protocol.

Pressure climbs. Fusion

stutters. Gravity

waits like a landlord.

~

I pause

the video.

~

Because tonight already has

a trigger

and I’m not above

stacking tragedies

like they’re discounts.

~

My daughter’s school

bag sits by

the door, too

big for her small shoulders.

Primary starts next

week.

New shoes. New rules.

New orbit

where

I’m not the sun anymore,

just… the thing

that packs

lunch.

~

Earlier, a message thread

goes

quiet. Friends

from the before-life.

Another continent. Another climate.

We used to be

bodies in rooms, now

we’re profile pictures

aging badly.

Some disappear

into careers, into spouses,

into clean fonts.

Some disappear

into OD, into some

other faultline.

Just

chemistry winning.

~

The fireplace is already

going. A

good, obedient fire. Domestic. Contained.

A flame that knows

its role.

Unlike me.

~

I kneel with

a shoebox of

photos like

this.

~

Like a priest

• with the wrong religion,
• on a balcony at dawn,
• chugging cheap beer,
• on big certainties,
• grin that thinks it’s immortal,
• a shoulder I used to lean on,
• before time

learned my address.

~

The fire takes

• the first one.
• Faces

buckle.

• Smiles

melt.

Eyes

vanish early,

as if

recognition is optional.

~

I hesitate on

a group shot.

All of us believing

this configuration was permanent.

Beautiful idiots.

I burn it,

and feel nothing

holy.

~

The smoke alarm chirps

once,

• a little bureaucratic scold,

and

• I wave

it off like

that’s how consequences work.

~

Ash sticks to

• my lips.
• My tongue.

I swallow it.

Of course

I do.

I’ve always been good at

ingesting what hurts

and calling it

maturity.

~

Soon,

my hands smell

like smoke and geography.

My knees crack because

symbolism doesn’t

come

with lumbar support.

~

I

unpause the video.

~

The star collapses

inward

like it finally stops negotiating,

then explodes.

~

Light

rips. Matter

forgets its manners.

Everything it ever was

flings itself

outward with the confidence

of something that will never have

to clean up.

~

The scientist says:

these elements become planets,

become

bone, become

blood.

Become children walking

into school

while

their parents quietly grieve

the versions of themselves

that didn’t make it.

~

The cough,

I swallow down.

No need to wake

anyone

with my unfinished life.

~

Down the hall, my daughter

sleeps. Small

chest rising,

falling. Tomorrow

her world

widens. Mine

rearranges around it.

~

The fire in

front of me smolders

low, red, steady.

I add another

log. It

hisses like

judgment. Accepts

it

anyway.

~

And I sit with the

ember-glow,

learning,

again,

the adult trick:

~

how to keep

warm without

setting everything

I was on fire

for proof.

~

Just...

once in a while,

some old

photos.

.