“don’t fight me on this,” he says. delicately. furiously. with him those two are not exclusive;

he is the gasoline, the spark, the ashes,
the smoke— but he is never the burning.
unseen, but stinging:
delicate and furious, at others, at himself.

and here i am. the roar, the rumbling, the heat, the light.
“treat me like i’m real,”
because men run from forest fires,
“love me this once,”
because you admire sunsets,

because my love is your anger. my anger belongs with gasoline and sparks, my anger belongs where your god will put it out, and as i go, you will delicately drift anew: smoke. ashes. 

“please.”