Some bridges make better
quick-burnt kindling
than
river-crossing construct.
And so
I carry a box of matches,
my fingers always ready
to strike fire
and
to escape the wreckage.
There is no
weak-willed, broken
thing
inside of me, not anymore.
Just warrior goddess,
all fang and teeth and wild eyes
watching
in the flickering firelight.
burnt bridges [poem]
Larissa Lee 