• tokillabibliophile 131w

    100 Degrees

    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.
    Clearly.
    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
    It's withering.
    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.

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