Forget

because superstition is in my bones. Painless playing with fire makes for a small round scar on the whiteness of my inner arm. My skin burns in the sun and this uncomfortable aligning to alien skkin is in my head. I relinquish my fire eater alter ego- if it ever did exist- squirm in the ugliness of this writing (remind myself of therapy, bile and vomit). And then! release re-release into the lightness of another getaway. We just won't let on that we knew about the hunger and the great escape.