"Who would love such a
toxic conundrum?"
I whispered in the early
hours of my existence,
starting as a lukewarm
substance,
gazing into my pristine heart,
my empty core.

Then the fate of life saw to it;
to stain my skin and give
my emptiness a name;
Hurt,
no.
Ignition, match,
or maybe their hands.

I can't tell when those things
had a distinct identity
and didn't just seem to be
my heart twisting and
my core splitting,
soaked in chemicals,
all mixing.

There are cigarette lighters
everywhere you turn,
they look like brown eyes,
rough hands and vinyl collectors.
But I realize I am something
to be inhaled;
choose dying over pleasure,
give me your utmost devotion,
touch me as I burn.