Fire scars from mucus haze and dusk is a near blur that seeps in windows. I hold hands with her fire skin and fire face amidst elevator smells of melted neon mush; our mucus flesh entwines in these our final hours. A charred letter in tatters, the phlegm congealing in waves of dry skin: lit on fire from these melting hands. She fingers the sink while I rub cold gel, inhale fumes within this crackling city of burnt trees and smoldering highways. Your fire scars glow, too, she says. We swerve back into the city at night aflame with streaks that smear and strip our skin to bone, beyond the mucus and following our fire hole promise until decay or transcendence, scarred in fire, scars reborn.
Jamie Grefe lives and works in Beijing, China. His work appears most recently in Mud Luscious, Hogglepot, and Pure Francis with works forthcoming in A Twist of Noir and Short, Fast, and Deadly.
