Being a pyromaniac stretches deep into the subconscious. The desire to toy with fire doesn't need to be physical. Dancing around possibility, getting lost in the fantasy. Shifty motives and the grasp of danger enveloped me. Reminiscing brings up the thoughts I blocked, had I considered the consequences? Lying to myself yields a yes. I was just going to end it one way or another, for attachment isn't truly there. Lies, lies, and lies again. They stretched so deep I didn't even realize that my reflection wasn't there anymore. The mirrors showed me an unrecognizable mess, one which I wouldn't call human. I'd call it sad, but I won't give it the satisfaction. The sweetest singe is taboo.
