My love was a fire that burnt the edges of my book, spreading to the binding, then from the inside, the flames licked outwardly toward my breath, filling my lungs until black was all that was left.

Ashes brushed aside. I stood with crusted eyes that questioned the surmise, to my late arrival.

Reprisal programmed in the map of my survival, vital to the plans for standing, and rejecting everything I've known, and i have grown in the pain, that has formed my strange demeanor.

My felonious ways, plead behind misdemeanors, for the leaner sentences of my commitments to commence upon the trenches of sheltered fakes, measured, divided, and placed in places to judge the taste of my waste.

Be my guest.