This matchbox hates me


This matchbox hates me. I turn it over and over in my fingers. White cardboard all the way around, one side roughs up my skin as I pass over. It hates me, and it taunts me.

I already burned myself three times. I can’t get the damned thing to light. I’m a fraud, and I’m useless, and the matchbox knows it. I don’t smoke. I’ve got lightbulbs and a heater and an electrical current. I’ve never dreamed of setting anything ablaze.

I look down at the broken bits of wood lying in the sink.

I’m too nice. A matchbox isn’t interested in pleasantries. A matchbox doesn’t care if I step on people’s toes. A matchbox produces a flame. I’m the one who has to use it.

I succeed on the fourth try. Looking too close at the flame, I start to see yellow spots everywhere. It scares me. What if my vision is somehow damaged? What if smoke gets into my lungs? But the matchbox doesn’t care. Didn’t I need it? Why am I complaining now? The matchbox hates me. If you need fire, you shouldn’t be upset when things start to burn.


Deixe um comentário

Preencha os seus dados abaixo ou clique em um ícone para log in:

Logotipo do

Você está comentando utilizando sua conta Sair /  Alterar )

Foto do Google

Você está comentando utilizando sua conta Google. Sair /  Alterar )

Imagem do Twitter

Você está comentando utilizando sua conta Twitter. Sair /  Alterar )

Foto do Facebook

Você está comentando utilizando sua conta Facebook. Sair /  Alterar )

Conectando a %s