Firestarter’s Daughter

You’re the one who taught me how to start a fire.

Can you really blame me for burning the bridge?

You used my light as tinder and I let you

because we called that love. Putting out your blaze 

gave me purpose, a place by your side so I stayed

even when your arson ignited too fast that

my backburn couldn’t always hold the line.

Being left in the aftermath of your anger and ashes 

became the punishment I believed I deserved.

I swallowed that flame willingly because managing 

your wildfires meant I could ignore my own. 

God, how you hated it when I let my spark get hot

enough to fight back. Your backdraft would detonate 

any rebellion so I choked down that smoke with a smile

waiting for a rescue and apology that never came.

So when you lit that final match I didn’t hesitate

letting it burn everything to the ground.

You never saw it coming. How could you, when you

never saw beyond your own burning house?

I knew exactly what I was doing when I walked away.

I could feel the heat of your devastation at my back 

and I let it rage. I knew without me lit up on your pyre 

you’d be grappling alone in darkness. So I let you.

Your fury can’t reach me but I still catch myself 

waiting for the warning of your smoke alarm. I finally 

have my own fireplace, where its warmth is teaching me 

how to receive love in a way that does’t burn,

how to let this hearth hold every sparking ember of me,

how it feels safe to stay in the gentle glow of my firelight.

You may have taught me how to start a fire, you never 

thought I’d use it to start building my own home 

where my children will never be a firestarter’s daughter.

Sarah Lorna