I Set Myself on Fire Over the Stupidest Things

I saw the silhouette before me, disfigured and cracked.

I saw the silhouette before me, disfigured and cracked.

"Step forward,"

Ignoring.

"I can not. You bore me."

His twisted smile crooks like transparency. The evil radiated his skin, a glow of green gasoline.

It's been nineteen years and counting.

Some days you can put a face to this man, a creature, however he is a creation of my imagination.

I am trapped in a cycle of widows, of weeps. Nontheless; they do not sleep.
For the demons, the saunter they play, at least they are willing to beg for my heed.

He told me once,

"They're mesmerizing, your words," as if my tongue was not my lounge.

I accepted the gestures, advanced the entanglements of his vineyard fingers.

Proceeding, he ripped my soul, quite evenly a-half. It was shale, as you see. But this was well done.
Somehow I found it in me to applaude such apathy.

The smell of rotten trees, a familiar scent to those who speak riddles.

The sickeningly severe silence was all the aghast. The fright I did fear, was never to pass.

It was the beginning of something I sewn.
It was my hands the bore this thing, this devil, to life. As it exhaled, I listened, and it spoke my name.

It was me in the garden, as said once before. Throat entangled, enranged, entertained, in a circular phase.

Because when something consumes you, I make friends with my fears. The oceans are deep, but to me, they comfort me.

For what I know is this man but I am this man.

The kiss of necks, the fingers in the hair, it was all me, I imagined it there.

The figure in the doorway, is me, mirrored there.