in parentheses

I was afraid the love would come over me

and char my flesh like the acrid kiss of fire,

turn my skin a new, more true black, blacker than when I was born

and you would see this and be left feeling responsible,

so I turned you away for the night, claimed the shelter was full

but it was a lie I told to keep you safe and feeling irresponsible,

so I could burn quietly and you would know nothing of my death,

that grisly, rueful sight- so sick, was I.