The Fire That Consumes

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Anger is a matchstick struck
against the dark, a quick spark
cradled in your hands. At first,
it is small, the kind of heat
that licks at your fingers,
thrilling, harmless—until you feed it.

You let it grow, let it rise,
watch it curl around your ribs,
snake through the chambers of your chest,
a golden thread of heat, pulsing.
It feels good, doesn’t it?
The way it smolders, makes you sharper,
makes you certain, makes you right.

But fire is never content
to stay small. You blow on it,
thinking you are in control,
but it is hunger now, teeth and flame.
It leaps from your hands,
catches the edges of things you love—
a doorframe, a letter, a name—
until everything is burning.

It is wildfire now, spilling fast,
lapping at bridges, swallowing homes,
leaving nothing but blackened bones.
And you, in the center of it all,
a torch of your own making,
glowing with rage, with ruin.

And then—death.

The fire does not follow.
The heat you worshipped dies
the moment your breath stops.
What did it leave you? Ash?
Smoke curling into the silence?
A name no one will speak?

Why didn’t you see this before?
Why did you let the fire spread
when you knew what fire does?
You thought you were different.
That you could hold the flame
without being burned. But the truth—
you were weak. You chose
to love the burn more than the balm.

This is how we are.
We stand at the edge of ruin,
knowing it, naming it, stepping forward.
We pour oil on the blaze,
call it power, call it pride.
But fire only knows to consume.
It does not love you back.

And in the end, the fire dies.
And so do you. And nothing you burned
will ever matter.