Combustion
I’ve always dreamed of painting
with fire—
lash the canvas with embers,
watch the smoldering orange spread,
chasing white into flame—
before my chaos dies into silence.
It feels natural, this
need to see my art burn—
they’re not complete, not before
the charred ink is bathed in heat.
I paint with alcohol then
ignite—
so my work is no longer
just raven lines on pale paper;
so I can burn with the words—
and live as silence.
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