I'm tired of putting out fires
Without knowing how to start a hose
The rubber dwindles in my hand
And I can't look at it anymore.
I can see it.
It is orange and purple and a shade of satan.
The flames, they bask on the fringes.
Playing silently with my fragile hinges.
Licking and lying.
Like a deed waiting to happen.
I venture into my home.
I can see burning beams
And melting glass
And charred memories
And ash and bone.
I can see the scales I shed
The warm sensations I hid
Like an old rat's skin.
I am tired of putting out fires.
And the moment it exhausts itself,
Some bastard launches off with another match,
Fiddling with it,
Turning slowly in a knuckled hand,
This tiny apocalypse with a future of dust,
And throws it on the fuel of my sins
That I saved for fiery volcanoes and the rustle of trees.
Now that my room is gone too,
I can be out in the open.
I have nothing to save my fires.
Except that there is too much water.
And now I drown.
And I realize
I'm tired of breathing underwater.