Daily, my skin itches. My lips chap and my knuckles peel and bleed. I pull at the hairs close to my scalp, the skin underneath forming rows of flaming red baldness. There’s something in my head today. Every thought is like a garbage can fire abandoned in an alleyway. The blazing light finds the sweat of the crumbling brick walls. The melting snow puddle below glints a cold mechanical yellow. The street lamp can’t decide whether it wants to be on or off. I can feel the electrical buzzing in my teeth.
Tonight, I’d rather spontaneously combust than lay my emotions raw on a silver platter. Do my thoughts come from my head or my heart? Does the collection of them both always have to result in a molotov cocktail of smoldering emotions? Shaken not stirred?
Self-immolation was historically used as a punishment, and maybe it’s right that I want to make like a convict and flee. If I dig down any deeper, I might as well light the match.
I should be thankful. I still have nerves that I can feel, tendons that move at my command, bones that are not charred. Everyday, I collect first degree burns. The effect is only surface level. I can move about my day, ignoring the raw pain. My eyes stay dry. No blisters, just redness, and when I scratch it feels oddly good to hurt.
Some days, I burn so badly that my muscles shrink. My joints curdle and wrench, shortening and sticking against my will. I wear my fists high in the air like I'm shackled to the stake. Curled up like flickering embers extinguished high in the air and feathering down slowly like post-apocalyptic snow. Woe be unto him that asks me “How are you really?”
My knuckles are starving for an unmarked cheek. I’ll fix my face into a scowl like my Mama taught me. Cauterize my frame into pugilistic permanency. Fizzing and spitting, the cracks in the webbing of my fingers widen.
In my haste, I shoulder-check into a man at the crosswalk.
“Burn the Witch” he’d say. I unhinge my jaw to speak.
“Burn the Witch” I’d say, and I’d slash the backs of my knees in appropriate apology and walk to my next class.
My therapist tells me I’m holding my breath. She tells me to notice the physical changes in my body as I speak about my past. The burns from the actual fire is not usually the cause of death for most immolation victims. Most die from suffocation. My tonsils are hot coal, and when I exhale, I want it to be my last. If an immolation victim survives, it is common for their lungs to fill with fluid a few days later to finish the job. My eyes are closed. The tool my therapist has me hold, oscillates vibrations in my hands. We explore the depth of my psyche and I beg to drown on land.
It is only possible to immolate to cinders in extreme circumstances. A berserk display of public cremation. Other people have it worse. Other people are starving and begging for a chance at life. So eager to live they would embrace the aches in their legs and hollow of their stomachs so that their families were clothed and fed. I am excruciatingly cognizant that humanity has always been friends with pestilence. So why, with every fiber of my being do I want to give up at my chance? Why am I so comfortable with my mind on fire, that extinguishing little pieces every week makes me cringe? I haven’t even given my parents a reason to be proud of me.
My mom is afraid to be buried. When she dies, she wants to make it final.
“I am not waking up in my grave when I’m gone. When It’s over, spread me wherever. I don’t care. Just don’t let me wake up.” She waves her hand in finality.
I can hear the chuckle of our Polish ancestors from beyond their non-graves. I wonder what she’d feel if she came back tasting gas in the air watching her flesh melt off her bones.
At work, I’m training three people at the same time. I am responsible for their success. I answer their questions and my heart pounds in my ears. My voice sounds distant and garbled and soot collects on my skin. The sour taste of burnt espresso coats the saliva sticking to the fleshy top of my mouth. The heat removes the feeling on my tongue. The lights go out, and I burn like a human torch. The ultimate martyr for the company. I tell my trainees they’re doing a good job. They hold their torches well.
Death by immolation is known as the most drastic form of protest. Only someone who knows their purpose; someone who lives for a cause could burn to the death to take a stand. Send a message. Though my skin itches, and the soot that coats it blurs my resolve, maybe I could burn to tell a story. Send a message.
About the Author About the Artist Born and raised in Chicago, Yasmine is a first-generation Mexican-Honduran-American woman working to find and express her identity within the Hispanic community and society itself. Her realm of photo work lies within identity expression and perception, working largely in digital and partly in film, in both still life and self-portraits. Yasmine works closely with photography and writing. Often combining the two in her work, she utilizes powerful prose and impactful photography to articulate her understanding of herself and the world. Follow her on Instagram for more of her work @yasmine.essence.
