When I opened the door
to my wing of darker rooms,
I expected to let something out
but did not expect 
so much more to get in 
and make a home there.

When I broke into song
by the lake of fire, 
I expected to take heat
but I did not expect 
my lungs to become
so hard-scarred,
did not expect
my voice to become
so brittle.

When I eased my knives
back into the block
after butchering, I did not expect
that they would rattle me awake
night after night, hissing out
from their wooden slots,
“more, more, more…”

When I shook hands
with you, salt-hearted 
snake, rhymer for the offense,
herald and praiser of all that blood 
can destroy when it breaks loose,
I did not expect to end up
shaking for so long after
I let go of your hand.  
I did not expect you
to keep shaking me. Somehow,
I never expected
to become

such a weary fool,
such a well worn tool,
such a gleeful singer
of fire’s ancient song.