The Burn.

They tell me I'm fussy-with lovers, with books, with music. I tell them that I would rather freeze than be lukewarm. I tell them that if it doesn't set me on fire, then no thank you; I don't want it. It's taken me years to confess that I would rather be alone than settle. The truth is, I cannot stand the taste of in-betweens. Half-measures will never be a part of me, and comfortable will never be my currency. If it cannot fill me up to the brim, I don't see the point of it. I want all or nothing, and I'm okay with it. They say, "Girl, how do you think a wildfire starts? From a spark. Relationships need kindling." I cannot make them understand that I am not afraid to build on things, to work hard and relentlessly on something, but l must stop apologizing for the fact that, truth be told, I cannot seem to want a love that does not engulf me. Someone told me that once you've tasted fire, you crave it, no matter how badly it burned your tongue. They weren't wrong. Maybe Icarus knew what he was doing all along. Maybe that boy just wanted a taste of the sun.

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