MATCHES LEFT IN MY POCKET I learned the night by the way it leans, Crooked lamp, one boot on the floor, Moon like a witness with bad intent Pressing its face to the door. She moved like trouble that knows its law, All slow yes and sideways no, A mouth full of mercy, a spine like a blade, And a heat she’d never own. I don’t light fires to feel alive— I stay alive because they start. Her love came wrapped in a preacher’s pause, Soft hands, strict conditions, Wanted my hunger house-trained and fed On approved incisions. I speak in sparks she couldn’t file, In pauses that stain the air, Truth doesn’t knock when it enters a room, It just undresses there. Some wants don’t beg. They lean in close and wait. I’ve burned in towns that forgot their names, Under jukebox saints and debt, Where the sheets remember every sin The mouth won’t say out yet. Fire don’t care if you mean it clean, It only asks if you’re real, And it takes its tithe from the parts of you You were hoping you’d conceal. Peace is a word that sweats when you lie. I know the cost of standing near I know the cost of standing near A flame that won’t choose you back, Touch ain’t ownership, And love ain’t safe just ‘cause it’s intact. I didn’t leave to be forgiven, Didn’t stay to be spared— I walked because my pulse still knew Which truths I hadn’t declared. Leaving ain’t running When staying makes you mute. Now strangers feel it when I speak too slow, That drag behind each word, Like a match struck once and pocketed, Never shown, but heard. I don’t wear ash like a badge of proof, I don’t rise clean or whole, I carry heat where the vows wore thin And called it self-control. I don’t cool down— I learn how to aim. If you hear bells when I clear my throat, Or smell smoke when I grin, That’s just the part of me still awake Where the fire’s been. I loved like a sin that knows its scripture, Paid in breath and time, And the flame—indulgent, exact, and cruel— Left me standing, Still mine Still mine. Got matches left in my pocket. No apologies. No map.
