aftermaths

You held your finger in the flame by accident
and so you burned it even worse
than you would have.
And you'll be nursing it all day
like a baby
too young to have learned any lesson
beyond how to cry.
You refuse to cry.
You wouldn't give yourself
the satisfaction. And

you love the pretty lights
dancing. The candle isn't worth
the game, maybe, but it's worth

The candle. And the pain of it
drowns, growing wrinkled in the bath,

as the wet block of book
that distracted you,
that you dropped in surprise
lies spread open, and sunning itself

in the window-light.