Made of gasoline,
the smallest spark
and I feel the fire eating me from the inside out.
I want to let it burn.
When my emotions feel weak as straw,
I light them like the tinder that they are.
Take all thought and logic and turn them into coal
and throw them in the furnace to feed the beast
that's made of me,
but belongs to me no longer.
Pointless petty triggers
leave me wondering why I let it go,
let it run me over.
A pile of ash and used-up cinders on the tracks
where I watched the train coming and spread my arms out wide.
What a beautiful burn
which makes me so ugly.
I pull the red veil on and bellow smoke,
inhale hot embers, replace the cool air inside me with rage.
Why did I let it do that?
Why did I let me do that?
I clench ice in my fist until my fingers melt grooves into the cube.
I have to let the deep chill of shame quench the flame,
leave my palm red with burning cold,
but it could be worse.
It used to be worse.