My hands don’t quite look like hands. I first noticed it this morning during Physics when instead of paying attention to the changes of energy depending on work I was looking down at them, planning on what words will soar from them and paint page with meaning. My hands are icy pale, fleshy and wrinkled. But cradling my fingernails are patches of red—not cherry from tenderness, but smoldering rouge. The thoughts of how I shall use them sparked a realization: my hands are matches. They are constantly chilled and dead like fallen pieces of wood until moments like this, moments when they are set ablaze as I write. The instant my hands are ignited with the thoughts of my mind, the cry of my soul, and the palpitations of my heart, a blue fire escapes. This fire sizzles, sears and melts my entire world, and I pray that the words left smoldering on the page my fire is fed upon will melt you. I hope it will sear your fears and insecurities. I hope it will sizzle upon the bitter ice that has enclosed you, the pain that has caused you to build your walls up so high. I hope that my fire, my words, my poems, and prose will make the impassable penetrable. For I know that every moment my matches are lit with this shimmering sapphire light I am free.