A Match to Follow

Odi Welter

When I was five, I drew a map in my mind of the world

I wanted to see. I scoured encyclopedias and thesauruses

for the words and ideas I was to use as bricks.

The dog ate it instead of my homework

and vomited it up in the sandbox. I dug out the pieces

and glued them back together. It grew and split into two,

like the bacteria staining my skin. It performed mitosis

until I had a galaxy in my chest. It swirled in my face,

black holes opening in my gut and stars imploding

in my veins. I tried to burn it off my tongue, but it only grew

like water thrown on a grease fire. I used my blood to draw

maps on the walls, carved cities and landmarks into dead trees.

Cheered for the imagination, the spark that consumed

me until I was nothing but a map to the make-believe.

I listened to the people in my head, recorded flavor

and stories like a historian. I filled notebooks with my findings,

covered myself in progress so I would not explode.

I was always on the edge of self-destruction, one misplaced

match away from turning myself into a witch tied to a stake.

I hid myself away and kept my work secret, finding relief

from the heat in the scratch of the pen. I breathed

in ink more than air. Same as nothing, I became fueled

by my own creation. I carved a path to insanity

with paper and pen. I found a home there, like an octopus

in the rocks. Watching, unseen, morphing with the tides.

I became a god at five.