Fire

Painful. Like a sock with a hole in it. That grows. Faster and faster. Until I curl up on the floor. Curling like twine. There is no hole, my sock is fine. What is painful is the fire. Then I heard the choir. A choir that laughs, as I bury myself. Under the carpet, near the shelf. The shelf falls over, right near my arm. I wish I had my good luck charm. Incapacitating. That’s when everything grows, except you. Flames. That appear for no reason. Except to laugh at me. Flames that grow as I start to stand. Staring at the fingers on my hand. One by one, my fingers implode. I jumped in the car, with fire on the road. Painful. Incapacitating. Fires and torn socks. So I continue my day.