I saw a fire place,
with flames,
And i just sat there,
I sat there in front of the open fire,
And watched the two logs and how they popped sparks like popcorn,
I watched as the flame made its way down and across the log so it would soon be completely black.
Coal.  
As i sat i thought about all the things i could do with the flame.
All the things that could be burned,
All the memories i wish i could forget,
I looked down at my arm
I reached my hand into the flame to grab the log.
Coal.
My hand didn't burn,
My arms did not burn,
My arm hair didn't even burn,
It was at that point I realized I might be fictional
Coal.
I held the burning block in my hand,
I felt a pain.
But it wasn't in my hand, it was in my heart.
No matter how hard I tried,
I couldn't make the flame consume me too,
I couldn't burn my arm,
I couldn't die,
I couldn't

I am a deeply sad person,

But that doesn't matter, does it?

You ask me how I am to make small talk,

You don't actually care, do you?

Do you care that I hurt,

That I cut my skin,

That I am not okay?

No, you only ask how I am in hopes to make small talk,

I am not okay

I am not alright

I am not good

I am hurting

I am crying

I am alone

Things are not okay,

You say that "it gets better"

Does it?

Or do I become immune to it?  

I am suicidal.

I am crying for help.

But my cries are never heard.