Start with a house made of matches. 

Throw in boldness bright as red lipstick at a funeral that refuses to be buried in black.

Put a drop of every color in her so she knows how it feels to be technicolor. 

Make her first meal be all the apples from the tree of knowledge. 

Have her hands hold the pulse of no. 

Give her hair that breaks combs.

Construct the outer layer of her heart with a pair of worn boxing gloves.

Summon her with a bonfire of burning bras. 

Splash some tequila in her blood. 

Fill her with all the holy candle flames in a cathedral. 

Infuse her breath with the northern lights. 

Make her soul always feel like a mouth in awe shaped like a great big “oh.”

Give her a voice like the sun: filling, reaching, everything in its sight. 

Go to the beach and catch her dreams that lay in the ocean. 

Roll her emotions in glitter that goes everywhere unapologetically. 

Show her to refuse to bloom into sorry. 

Make her life like a sunset, staining the sky with a story. 

Describing her will be like describing a color no one has seen.

When she’s alive, she’ll be a burning house.