Confession of an Arsonist

You prayed to God for my pyromania–liked the way I laughed
with the flame of a match reflecting

in my swamp eyes–liked to think you were different,
like some kind of false god because you could call

every tree by its Christian name. They bent to your silvery words
and manifest destiny, like you assumed

I would bend, as you scrawled our initials into cedar bark, a tattoo
you’ll only ever live to regret, and I guess

you thought you knew me, and though I hate so say it,
not a breath of it was true,

just the concoction of a naive mind as you imagined me
delicately holding your calloused hand, a paper doll,

melting under raindrops, making you feel
like more of a man when I was only ever the villain,

but boys love to be saviors, so I let you
and cannot feel a sliver

of remorse because you were warned
I was an arsonist, so don’t take me

on this guilt trip for the way
my fingers dripped like sparklers, burning

your wonderland, incinerating Spanish moss, obsidian
smoke billowing through midnight woods,

fingertips singing your face, leaving charred marks,
fragile like monarch wings as I tried

to make sense of your lips but couldn’t, so
instead I mixed gasoline

into your waterfalls, inside woods in some murky corner
of a water tower town, handpicked

just for me. I won’t be anybody’s fool,
swooning stupid in a Chevy for an insomniac

boy scout, pointing to birds
on powerlines, who knows their names

but never mine, and I’ll never look back
at the flames I created that garnish your mind,

melting your rose glass
perceptions like peach honey

until you wonder what your life could’ve looked like–
and you regret knowing me.

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Marigold Lorde was born and raised in rural South Georgia. She attends Berry College and is working on a bachelor’s degree in studio art and creative writing. She loves telling stories deeply rooted in the South, riddled with all the beauty and dysfunction that springs from its landscape.