He told me that he is burning alive,
not literally, but inside. Said that he
feels palpitations every time he thinks
he might go back;
like his heart is a jarful of moths,
beating against glass.
I told him we are all breakable,
but that he is going to make it through.
He asks me if monks can really
spontaneously combust. I reply, no,
but they light themselves on fire.
It’s a way of protest. He says oh.
He then says, I want to protest
against Adderall, Cymbalta, and
Marijuana: he still can’t focus, still
can’t be happy, and being high is
a minor fix. I don’t know what to say.
We sit silent for a while. I ask him
what depression is like. He laughs
and says, it’s like a really drawn out
stubbed toe, only it’s in your head
and no matter how much you curse
you think the pain will only get worse.
It always does too. I just want to die.
The next day he scorched himself.
Someone called 911 and reported a man
walking out of a pawn shop
with a jar full of something dead
and then poured
gasoline over his head and lit a lighter.
I cried. I wondered if there were wings
still fluttering when he burst into ash.
He could have at least saved what little
flight he had left, what little life, for me.
