By Madeline Berberian-Hutchinson

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1. Hold the extinguisher with the nozzle pointing away from you.

2. Aim low. Point the extinguisher at the base of the fire.

3. Squeeze the lever slowly.

4. Sweep the nozzle from side-to-side.

I, summertime solipsist, spent my formative Julys fortifying sandcastles with salt water and anguished introspection.

Through juvenile attempts at this endeavor, I was left alone as the weight of humidity descended upon my sunburnt body, and the haze obscured any opportunities for reprieve.

Burning, I scratched the sand from under my fingernails, borrowing their grit to remind myself that I was still, in fact, alive.

I etched ciphered pleads of escape in the reeling shadows of the shoreline, but they made themselves wash away.

How do you dispatch distress signals when nobody recognizes them, not even yourself? 

I, autumnal force of accelerating affliction, spent my thirteenth October mourning my youth in the form of combustions directed towards my mother.

The thirteenth candle she lodged in my store-bought ice cream cake must have been a trick, as the flame gifted me extended purgatory through its unwavering blaze. 

Burning and coughing, I spent my exhales on the tenacious task at hand as the contained flame began to exceed its promised boundaries. 

I watched the flame obscure my mother’s knowing smile, then her intertwined fingers, until it swallowed her and the other party guests entirely. 

How do you invite yourself back to the ruins of your birthday party? 

I, winter wave of weariness, spent the depths of my December enfettered to the familiar intimacy of my outerwear.

My scarf served a dazzling dualism: callous comforter and harbinger of affectionate asphyxiation.

Burning and coughing and choking, I scratched at my neck, until my irritated skin complemented the deep red of my woolen scarf.

I readily surrendered to sidewalk snow banks to foster my hibernation that this year had endlessly humored.

How do you burn alive during the coldest Sunday of the year? 

I, beaming spring bloom, am spending my June in a rosy kind of recession.

Not even the most morbid malignancy could mar my convalescence.

Burning and coughing and choking and gasping for air, the fire won’t take me this year.

I am extinguishing myself from the inside out whilst assembling visions in the sand, blowing out my birthday candles, and shedding my scarf. 

How do you use the fire extinguisher? 

Process

Jackie, my mentor and I recalled memories from childhood together using prompts to stimulate inspiration. I reflected on my own childhood and realized some common themes were isolation and heat. So, with the help of Jackie, I manifested feelings of overwhelming heat and burning into a poem detailing the pervasive anxieties of my childhood.