(With inspo from Nate Stevonson)
It starts as warmth.
A fire so small you can hold it in the palm of your hand.
It grows ever so slightly every day and you feed it.
A bit of this and a bit of that.
It grows so slowly that you don't even notice when you start to burn.
It grows from the inside out and soon you will start to feel it.
A slow, steady burn that grows with each passing day.
It's not bad at first.
An uneasy feeling that widens and stretches into despair,
That's ok because you don't notice it yet.
You finally kiss her, but all you can think after is that you've broken something inside.
You just break down and cry one day.
Like all teenagers.
Your hormones are unbalanced.
Everything is supposed to feel like fire.
You can't let them see you cry, because you're the one that's more mature.
The one that's more perfect.
So you take a tack from your tackboard and dig it into your skin with just enough pressure that the pain stops you from crying.
You can feel the fire now.
It's almost familiar.
The panic comes more and more often until it comes all the time.
You were foolish to think it wouldn't be as bad.
That it wouldn't be like last time.
You make a playlist of the songs that understand and another of the songs that don't.
You want someone to ask you why you need them.
The fire is a blaze now and it's the only thing that is keeping you from crumbling, but you are slowly turning to dust and you can only hope you'll rise again.
You can feel the dust settling in your lungs and it makes it hard to breathe.
You claw at your sides to give them an outward sign that something is wrong but they don't seem to notice.
The fire has burned through the inside and you can feel the outside starting to crack but you know you can hold it together.
You have to hold it together.
When you're alone all you want to do is scream because the fire is too hot now.
It's so hot that it feels cold and it is burning a hole through you.
You try to talk to a friend but you chose a time too late to expect a response.
It's all your fault really.
All those little mistakes of yours were the kindling and you lit the match to keep yourself warm.
It hurts to swallow and you know you need to run, but you can't run from what's inside.
You know that soon the fire will run out of body to burn though and it will only be whatever's left smoking in the cold, kneeling on a pile of what was once you.
You hope you'll be the phoenix, the one who can survive, but you're not sure you can be.
All you can do is hope the fire will let go before you become ashes.
Before you become dust.
Before the last plume of smoke rises from your burnt and battered body and you get up to start it all over again.
Because the fire never goes out.
