i don't tan

i.
you had fire in your hair
and on the tip of your
fingers and i used you
as my radiator; i used you
to keep me warm on the
nights of thinning blankets and
of snow wandering through the
cracks in my windows.

ii.
when summer came
you forgot how to cool
down. your hair was
still burning, your fingertips
blistered—i cowered when
you touched me.

iii.
you whispered strange things
that summer, your hot breath
like a blowtorch on my neck.
you wiped droplets off your
forehead. “dogs can’t sweat,” you said
and i laughed because i was
so afraid of the pores above my lip,
threatening to spit at you. i didn’t want you
to think the dampness of my
face meant that i couldn’t
handle your fire.

iv.
i don’t tan—i only burn, and i came
away from that summer with scars
on my skin. i couldn’t escape you,
i couldn’t escape your burning building:
every door was breathing fire, but I
wasn’t even trying to leave.

v.
i sit, still, on the wooden floor,
letting myself burn.