Summer of Eighteen

I used to squint through summer,
                                                   catching rays in the gaps between my fingers.
        I used to dream beyond my hands 
  of a love I truly believed could be found: the burgeoning, 
                                                                                                                       kaleidoscopic kind,
like feeling the sun, finally, on both sides of your body. 

I used to play with fire,
                                                prodding and poking just to feel some heat.
      I used to let love burn me,
                                            infiltrating my veins until they split and burst
                                                                                                                              open with light.
I bled right down to the fingertips.

So I stopped wearing heart-shaped lockets at the age of eighteen.
I was reborn that summer - in the way that requires you to die first,
to touch your lips to cup of temptation 
                                                                                 and leak right out.

I used myself up 
          and the immortal machine kept gushing 
                                                                                                        startling red. A discovery
                                 of what kept me running all along: blood,
this aggressive liquid, this burning vigour 
                                                                                                   inside.
Jane, 19, UK.