She likes to play with fire. Her matches lined up, she systemically sets each candle alight. The flames sing and sway like sirens, each one luring. That is the problem with flames. They are bright, tempting, and she is a moth. She likes to play with fire. It doesn’t matter who gets burned. One second of the flicker is worth it. Burn her fingers, dammit, burn the whole house down. She wants to be cleansed. The fire is just a means to and end. She wants to burn in the eternal fire. All of her sins and flaws, her cravings and her cares, her hellos and goodbyes, will all crumple into the light of a thousand candles. The flames are growing but each time she snuffs them out with her breath, they rekindle brighter and taller than before. Her face is singed, but she cannot stop playing with fire. The fire is her friend, with its promise of renewal in betrayal. Prayer candles lit in front of the Virgin Mary. Fire-It alone can make her pure again. She wants the fire inside her, she wants to embody it with every bit of her soul. She longs to be the flame, dancing in the night and burning everything in its vicinity.