Love always wakes the dragon;
that’s just what it does,
stirring in the rafters
like it pays rent,
flaring between
the floorboards to exhale
its long, inconvenient heat
through rooms that were
perfectly fine only a moment ago.

One second the air’s ordinary,
the next it has opinions;
you’re looking at me as usual,
as if I’m the one who snapped my fingers
and conjured the blaze – which, fine,
would be very on brand for me –
but I keep insisting I’m not the dragon,
even if sometimes, mid-sentence,
I wonder if I’m lying,
or if I’ve simply misplaced
the truth again.

What I do know is that I’m
at a total loss for a rudder,
though a rudder presumes a boat,
as a boat presumes floating,
while I appear to be engaged
in what professionals might call
drowning: the upright,
socially acceptable kind
where you keep making eye contact
and nodding politely
while your lungs file quiet,
frantic complaints.

When I say this isn’t over,
I don’t mean it melodramatically;
I mean it the way erosion does,
patient and deliberate,
never asking permission.
The center does not hold,
but I don’t know why everyone’s
so shocked by that,
given it has never been
particularly good at its job,
contracting like a startled pupil
before expanding,
then abandoning,
the whole project entirely.

Meanwhile, here I am:
this small, luminous-in-theory
figure in the dark
who always forgets to check
the flashlight batteries
until the very moment
the light is needed,
which serves as a public
service announcement
for everyone to check theirs,
first; then, very quietly,
admit they have no idea
what shape they’re taking.

I know which moment
you’re waiting for:
the one with the wall,
the brick dust, the body
discovering its edges by collision,
but let me get there in my own tempo,
because while everyone loves the impact,
nobody wants to hear about the long,
exhausting walk toward the wall.

For a season longer
than decency recommends,
I truly believed I was the dragon,
a thought I can offer now
with the detachment of someone
who has swept so much ash,
he recognizes its choreography.
I confused heat with aliveness,
mistook smoke for instruction,
living in what can only be described
as an ash villa where even my pulse
sounds like it’s sifted through a sieve.

Humans, I’ve decided,
are just tiny machines
of grievance and want,
clattering forward with pockets
full of minor wounds while
calling that depth, though mostly
it’s just drafty smoke;
we’re candles pretending
to be torches, wavering
at the slightest commentary.

I collect odd survival facts
the way others collect charms:
like the fact that lemon
extract is 170 proof,
so if the liquor store’s closed
but the grocery store’s open,
you’re still in business –
a fire-adjacent comfort
I hold close. I often return
to the memory of that snake
that swallowed a pretzel whole,
its perfect geometry
sitting inside the creature,
making it ridiculously
valiant as it continued on,
reshaped by what it had let inside.

Some creatures burn the room down,
while others swallow impossible shapes
and keep going. We don’t get to choose
which we are. We only notice
the brightness lodged inside us
when the light hits at a strange angle,
but the flames haven’t gone anywhere;
I can feel the heat gathering,
soft as breath behind a door,
though whether it’s mine
or something else’s,
I still can’t quite tell.