Sometimes I like playing with fire

I like playing with fire sometimes. Twirling the colourful crackling paper until it burns my fingers, chipping them off one by one. They tell me not to. I light the matches one at a time dropping them all around me surrounding myself with tinges of fierce blue and orange until it envelopes me high enough so I can swallow it. My mama told me not to waste matches and not to play with fire. I tell her that I only watch the ballerinas dancing in my deepening pupils until they creep inside me lighting my heart. I tell her that she doesn't need to worry, it's only fire.