Burn

There is a fire inside the house.

I inhale smoke and call it appetizer.

I feast on destruction: my own.

Chaos is desirable. It is attraction.

Anything safe will surely kill me.

The burn inside ravages its way out of me.

I slam myself against the wall: relief.

I beg for anyone to claw the scald out.

After all, pain is living.

Barely surviving is the best part.

Flames rise too high.

I exhale the ash,

I cough it up onto the ground,

I eat all the fire until I am all that’s left,

and I call myself Icarus. I love the fall,

but I crave more of it, always more.

Swimming to shore is second nature.

There will always be the dust of aftermath.

I am ashamed.

I am in pain.

I am not happy.

I swear I will not do this anymore.

I swear I will be better next time, but

I have told myself this for years. It will

not happen. I love flames, licking my

flesh. I love the pain, love the phoenix-fire

heat of melting tongue. I say I want this,

but I will only ever get it from myself.

Need is only harmless when it is controlled.

With every breath, I ignite myself.

And I extinguish.