“But this had been a sin of passion, not of principle, nor even purpose.”
—Chapter XVIII, ‘A Flood of Sunshine’

 

She lies on her belly,

relishes the cool sheet.

Her back radiates heat.

Blisters on her shoulders

swell to globes, quarter-sized,

building pressure to weep.

Contraction will come, the

tightening of skin, the

prickling of needles. Then

snake-like delight, peeling

dermis to start soft and

supple again. A threat

from Dad to paint on her

back in zinc oxide an

S for stupid

S for senseless

S for skin cancer

When will she learn?

***

Today’s prompt came from Robert Lee Brewer: write a burn poem.