When I'm fiery, man I burn up some shit. I didn't mean to when I was a lass--I would accidentally move into a draft and be in a moony mood and leave the place singed behind me. Later in my 20s, I did mean to; wreck it--I would douse the rubble in some moonshine and toss the whole lighter in. Let it all burn, baby, burn. [The roof is on fire.]
Alas maturity calmed my fire. I craved less heat, less carnage. Took to smaller arts, lamps and lights, cigarettes, moonlight, fear. Motherhood and marriage almost smothered the flame all together. The spark would hide, quietly under the cover of a sheath and then, after a long time, one big boom, usually late at night, usually alone. No one to feel the heat.
Now, it's time to rebuild my flame. MY flame. Not yours. Not his or hers, MINE. I'm building the balance. A large clearing. Rocks around the outside, for your protection. Kindling, twigs, and paper set up in a nice little triangle. I will flick the match. I will fan the flame. I will tend my fire.