There are so many words, so many pent up sentences biting in my mind. Some are hurtful, others heartfelt, ones that slip out under the tongue, and those that are far more patient, festering. Excess secrets, a true abundance of dead emotions. And what am I to do? Weave the quiet hate and the screaming loneliness into words of gold no one will ever read. Papers in the hearth. Literary drawings hidden on sheaves of paper in the binding of books, and hidden in the margins. I find them.

And I burn them.

Those fragile, pre-shattered shards of my sanity strewn through my post-shattered being. Those hushed whispering shadow words. Inked in black, with blacker intent. But they make the fire beautiful. They make it glow with life as I burn bits of myself. Burn them away with  malice and fear and cowardice. And the fire dances with joy I can only feel imprinted on my dulled mirror of a soul. But it distorts and snaps. Snaps into shards with the blackest intent.

I fear I have more words to burn.