the myth starts with a hello baby; the myth starts with my hand on yours & my lifeline placed on kissed-raw lips & whiskey-flavored mouths; the myth starts with prometheus & fire & a penchant to burn. you have a need to set things on fire & i’m the matchstick willing to be lit aflame; the myth starts with strobe lights & meteor showers we pretended were falling down to scorch; we deserve this, you know, the ring of fire we pretend we can’t feel under stars that scream for recognition; the myth starts like this, we pretend to dance underneath the candlelight. waltz. salsa. the details don’t matter; the myth starts like this, i think if i met the goddess of beauty, she’d take your face & your voice & your body & she’d be you; the myth starts with a halo of galaxies untold & a fire under our asses & my rage (love) sold out a concert hall & i screamed until my throat was raw & my fingers cut into the filets only a violinist could achieve. (the truth is my rage barely fills my body, an exit wound with no point of entry.); the myth starts with agni & a story about love & a cheesy line about the tunnel of love & how you’d never let me go if you had the option; each morning an elegy & each afternoon a funeral & each night a burning pyre (burning love burning body burning hearts); the myth goes like this – i tell you i remember what it feels like to be lit aflame, paper-mache skin & nyx’s red lipstick (shade copenhagen) & the raw red of my skin on yours – we pretend this is what nights upon nights look like (not a burning pyre. never the burning pyre; a nightmare long forgotten, a bullet hole with no casing). we pretend this means you never leave. we pretend this means i need you to stay (we pretend that i’m burning. this means i need you to stay. this means i pretend i’m not lying. this means the ring of fire has our name on it & the halo’s a scorching earth or a broken promise or a moth towards lightning or a self-portrait in only one color). the myth ends with a hello baby; the myth ends with the ending we deserve, an unfinished poem & a story that refuses to burn & a man that controls fate (leaving. staying. what does it matter anymore); the myth ends with this: i step on your toes when we dance the waltz (there’s something poetic about this, how the air burns with the desire of it all, how we’re locked together with a halo & a ring of fire); the myth ends like this: we just want to love, baby. we just want to be two exit wounds with no point of entry. we just want to take up space. we just want to burn.