I never realized that sobriety would become a personal hell.
I played with fire.
Hell, I laughed at the first spark
And as the days grew shorter I began to wonder
How many sparks till I get a flame?

The fire started and no help came
I lost my hands and eyes to collapsing beams
Yet no help came
I thought, maybe it would be better to let the flames take this home
But the ash and dry wall coated my lungs and nostrils
I screamed for freedom
For release
For a hero of some kind
For water, even a drop to bless my dried and cracked skin
For some ******* air
And as the fire claimed my home
And my body
And eventually, my mind
I grew silent.

The fire is gone now.
I can't feel the sun kiss my skin over the scars that encompass my roasted corpse.
I can't sing. I can't speak.
My screams are a whisper in the wind of a storm already passed.  

And as I recover my footing and senses
I am forced to remember what my own personal hell was
And face it