The paper burns in my hands
as I try to read what's on it,
but it's turning to ashes
faster than I can understand;
didn't even get past the second word.
The bittersweet smoke stings
and my eyes start to tear,
as I wonder why.

By all means I should be saying
fuck you
and call it good.
And if I had any sense I would be
walking away
from this mess.
But I'm not
because I can't,
and I'm paying for it.
I hope you're happy
that I'm not.

The flames lick at my fingers
but I can't feel the burns.
The only thing I can feel is you;
look where that got me.
All that's left of this is some
ashes and a memory.
These burns will leave their scars,
and after they've healed
I'll feel a little less.

By all means I should be saying
fuck you
and call it good.
And if I had any sense I would be
walking away
from this mess.
But I'm not
because I can't,
and I'm paying for it.
I hope you're happy
that I'm not.

It's times like these an extinguisher would be nice,
but all I can see is that lighter in your hands.