There is charcoal on my arms,
Yet they used to be wood,
You'd think the moisture from my eyes,
Would make the bark feel good.

But I keep playing with the flames,
Running my fingers through the light,
Yet I always end up wondering,
Why burn marks get on my heart.

I've seen a few different flames,
Ones of various strength and colour,
But yours seemed so warm,
Like a campfire in the dark.

But I find myself again, with charcoal hands,
For my branches dry out quick,
And it's just too easy,
for you to come and burn down all of this.

I always think it'll change,
Like I'll be the final flower,
To bloom amongst the flames,
But the smoke just ends up suffocating me again.

My sunflower friends ask me if you didn't realise,
They thought maybe he plays too rough,
But I'm tired of being not enough,
Your obliviousness isn't my flaw.

Suppose that's what hurts in the end,
To know I'm not the flawed one,
But your strings of fake security,
Are what leaves permanent scarring on my face.