When I first saw you, you kissed me on the forehead and took a bucket of gasoline, raising it over your head, and poured it over me.  The chemicals seeped into every one of my pores.

You, that burning late August sun, set every square inch of my slick, slimy fossil fuel frame to flame.  Oh, I burned and burned for you, but I mistook the heat of your scorching destruction for the warmth of true affection.

You had your fun, but my fire grew too big for you; you were a pyromaniac, but you didn’t have a death wish.  Even in the cool December air, you didn’t need me to keep warm.

Eventually I was all burnt out, no more wick for flame to consume, so I withered away in the rubble of you.

Somehow, I walked away from the ashes: reborn, wiser.  With a new policy to hold myself to: never date an arsonist.