The Wayward Scholar

I must be wicked.  

there’s memory here 
haunting and sure 
goodness is not my only nature 
secrets we cannot speak  
ignited instead between scratches of ink 
This devastating impulse to destroy myself.  

wild imaginations from tip of every stroke 
such maddening concessions!  
a wizard’s confessions, petroleum on dry pages 
and scratches of ink spark fires, blazes.  
Burning notes.
Burning pages. Burning eyes.  
Burning smoke. Burning flesh. Burning cars. Burning bridges. 
wallpaper peels black licking yellow
licking orange licking red licking violet licking back 
until there is only grey ash and confetti 

new worlds of shredded memory and bliss 
of beforehand, of love and body and despair  
and betrayal and risk 
confounding worlds of violence, rage and being 
of invisible and seeing 
fresh regrets experienced in suffering and smiling 
of afterwards and what now?
and tomorrow and the day after that 
awaiting the return to

Forgiveness recovered by bare hands 
rougher than diamonds in burning sands 
lessons learned always a blink too late 
vengeful cycles illicit this fate
an honesty without smothering truths
would set the world on fire 
and yet we are already scared, crying, laughing, hollering 
This isn’t life how I imagined. 

mining for more courage 
there is no love upon this pyre 
I am not who they want me to be 
secrets we cannot speak 
scorching earth and wind 
holding memory near
bracing, a baptism by fire 
illuminating  

I must be wicked.