I burned for a year, but no one felt the heat. Left ashes on everything I touched. The traces of a silent burning. But I am no phoenix, and this is no rebirth. This is the dying of the senses. No nerve left to feel. This is a forest fire, and I am the kindle.
I burned for a year just to say that I did. Self-immolation of the most selfish degree. A sacrifice that isn't for the best. I've given up a dozen times, only to give up on giving up. But this time I swear I mean it. And nothing will be gained or lost. All you'll find is ash, and dust, and residue.
I burned for a year or maybe it was ten. It's been so long that I've lost count. But it's my fault for being so flammable. For being a wildfire of a being. For being so desert of feeling. I just burn and burn and burn.