I always thought suicide was consuming a bottle of pills, placing the barrel to my temple, or tightly tying a rope around my throat, but that's not suicide. Suicide was letting you touch me and devouring every time you did, allowing myself to get drunk off your lips. Intoxicating myself with your touch and getting high off your presence. Letting you inside me and introducing you to every brick upon the walls I built. Suicide was falling in love with you knowing it was going to go up in flames. I knew I was going to burn, but I craved the heat. Therefore, I continued to be fuel for your flames until you left me as ashes.
