Panic Attack

No purpose to my days, I set small fires 
to pass the time. The hours

flex their muscles. The flint 
barely cracks a spark, a wink, a glint

that goes out too soon most times—
but when it does catch, the flames

devour themselves, growing great
with their own devastation. Fate

is just unintended consequences – 
let one ember ignite, and all sense

transmutes to ruin: a banshee
with curled fingernails; a gorgon, green

and merciless; a girl with a loaded gun
trapped inside a woman with her tongue 

cut out. Under my skin they pace,
rattle me, give color to my face.