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*
You come across the first flame, after turning nineteen…
A bright and cascading glow, it is…
It is the middle of a long Louisiana summer, and everything's heat. His fingers playfully tug your hair, and his lips drink wet, and you haven't smiled this hard since Papa vanished. Bruises fade. Bones mend. Blood flushes in your cheeks, warm and pumping pleasantly.
Everything he needs to say, it comes from his eyes. A deep marshland-blue.
You know you shouldn't.
But, you know… you know… the voices can only die with you.
He extinguishes so, so quickly, glowing and roaring out in the night while writhing, and you almost feel bad for him.
*
The next flame gently sways in your hands. You cradle him close. You want this.
He's sixty, and you're not. His overalls smell faintly like diesel gasoline and beer. On your twenty-third birthday, you let him suck your cock in a truck-stop bathroom. The sink's edge feels greasy. Your hands tremble with anticipation. He ignites you, calls you pretty, and…
You know…
There's no coming back from this.
It's midnight. You watch his corpse smolder into a pile of ash, staring for hours, wiping the dried crust of saliva off your lips.
*
This new flame, the voices tell you…Â
Too hot.
Too untrusting and too shrouded by darkness.
So… you watch him. You can barely tear your eyes away. You're much older than you were before, leaving Tennessee at forty-one, and he's a glare of light. The denim tight along the curve of his ass. His muscles hard. Your demons, they adore his sun-reddened features.
You need him.
You need him to burn alight your senses.
The voices…
Some sing; some scream.
*
The last flame…
He's still beside you, kissing your neck, clutching your visibly scarred hand. Nineteen. Softly shimmering.
You hope it lasts.
You hope when the fire rises, ceases, billows your lungs with smoke and sparks, and takes… it brings him another.
And, it ends.
*
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