and not those handy, easy-to-carry ones my grandmother keeps in a corner of her house “just in case”. this is no just-in-case; this is an internal inferno.

i need the heavy duty kind, the kind they use for the most violent fires.

because although my rationality rests upon my extremely flammable heart, akin to an overused yet secure fire blanket, i never really know when it’ll catch fire again.

what i do know, is that you are gasoline, and i am a conflagration waiting to happen. you are the fuel to my painful tragedies of remorse and guilt.

i promise i’ve been trying so hard to cut off all sources of gasoline, but time only heals what it wants to heal; this time it decided it does not heal third degree burns. not even the ones that go straight to your heart; flesh and epidermis all intact, blood still pumping, but your heart is the one suffering these scars.

i don’t know what else to do to stop feeling like i’m on fire other than make myself feel terribly numb. because i’d rather be unfeeling than feel everything all at once, like smoke choking me without warning, swarming in uninvitedly into my premature lungs.

if you, gasoline, need my oxygen to keep burning a bright passion to stay alive; please do, but spare me from the knowledge that my heart is no longer mine. better yet, let me embody all your pain, so that you will feel none when you reignite into something potentially dangerous.

a fire only takes a little spark to get going and i don’t know if the day will come where there will be absolutely no sparks left, but right now, i sure feel like i’ll burn and be reduced to nothing but ashes in a forgotten urn.

please forget me.

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