How to Misuse a Matchbox

The night pressed a matchbox
into your palm.

You carried it like evidence,
like a small coffin of splinters,
never thinking to strike.

You were meant to be the trouble,
not carry it—

not nail each warning to your spine,
not sleep with every siren
curled beneath your tongue.

Some windows deserve
a stone’s brief grammar.

But somewhere between the dare
and the damage,
you began guarding every spark
as if the room would burn
simply because you entered it.

Set the box on the sill.
Take one match.
Scratch it awake.

The room gathers
around the small blue body.

Your hands open.
Nothing falls.