21%

too much, and you’re burning; too little, and you suffocate

Some days, breath is a blessing.
the sky in my lungs,
the clouds in my head.

Other days, it’s a matchstick.
one struck too close to the bone.

I’m keeping a tinderbox in my chest—
filled with hours bought in bulk,
dry memories,
and names I don’t say out loud anymore.
I don’t want to start a fire.

But it’s all there,
the ingredients for it:
a spark, a breeze, a slipped moment.

They say the air is about 21% oxygen.
which is enough to breathe for a human,
and more than enough to feed a fire.

It’s a bit of a problem.
Because I’m both:
human.
and fire.

Human because that’s what I look like,
it’s what others expect of me,
and fire because that’s what I feel like.
a little out of control. a little risky.
good for chocolate smores.

I’m not sure what type of fire I am, though.
A campfire maybe,
because I make sure everyone around me is comfortable.
A lantern fire, perhaps,
because more often than not, I get lost lighting the way for others.

Maybe a candleflame—
one that is gentle; trying,
melting quietly into myself
just to keep someone else from feeling alone.

Some days, however,
I’m a wildfire.
Not because I want to destroy,
but because people love to pour gasoline
and the air is already waiting.

It only takes the right mix;
the right moment:
one part careless words uttered by a bitch,
fourteen parts silence donated by cowards.
And suddenly, I need a warning sign.

They think it comes from nowhere.
that blaze in my voice,
the sparks in my eyes.

but they forget that the air holds
21% oxygen.
Plenty to breathe.
Plenty to burn.

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