As a citizen of the seventh circle 

of Dante's inferno, 

I was no stranger to burning at the stake. 

Boiling blood burst inside my veins, 

volcanic waters washed away my sins 

and made me whole again. 

Weekends were spent relaxing 

on a bed of hot coals that charred my flesh, 

as the air filled with the sickening stench of a soul condemned. 

Overcooked, my tenderized skin slid off 

my bones and I let out a whimper. 

Before I could walk, 

I knew I was headed straight for Hell, 

so I turned up the heat in my bath 

until my body was blemished and blistered.

Whenever my teeth chattered from the cold, 

I doused myself in kerosene then 

struck a match and sautéed my soul. 

Self-immolating here among my fallen peers 

was preferable to the pain I felt over the years. 

The flames begin to falter, reducing me to ash; 

a day's work is over, so I rest my heavy head.