Neosporin
There
once was fire.
Witnessed
no flame.
Only feel the leftover warmth,
Afterheat afterthought.
You’re
charred.
Seared.
An open, bubbling,
smoking wound from which molten lava spews and black dust rises.
Don’t
blame me for the fire.
Blame me
for
the sting of my medication.
Call me
your Little Neo.
Neosporin Neoclassical Acid Jazz
Musician.
There
was a fire. Past
tense,
understood.
There
isn’t anymore.
Won’t
be.
What we
have is not
fire
worthy.
I’m not
fire
worthy.
I’ll just take that festering
wound and mold it into a tiny, unforgettable, pink blemish you have to know the
exact location in order to begin the search for.