Cooper King

I can't help staring at you. At the long scar that works its way down the side of your left leg. You're wearing a red dress and I sit in the dark, huddled with my chin on my knees. Sometimes I think you must be a magic woman because the fire is almost too hot even from my position, and you're no more than an arm's length away. Your clothes should have caught fire by now, but you don't seem bothered by the heat at all. And as you continue to dance around the furnace, closer than anyone else can manage, twirling your red dress so that the flames try to lick the hem, I can only think about your scar.