There was a fire.
It was coming for me.
With every inhale I took.
Every breath I breathed.
It came closer. Taunting me. Hissing in my face.
Fire!
Fire!
It swayed like the ocean, whipping at my flesh.
Fire!
Fire!
I couldn't smother it, couldn't blow it out.
Fire!
Fire!
There is no fire. You must not be seeing correctly.
Then why is it hurting me?
Why are there scars upon my skin?
YOU ARE READING
The poems I carved from my wounds
PoetrySomeone once told me life doesn't come at you it comes from you. You're the caption of your soul, the master of your fate. If that were true I'd have a phatty right now.
