When I say I'll fix it, I don't mean for you.

Everything about me burns, but not with passion. It's a slow burn, like one would expect from a lit stove, or car engine. Not all consuming, but enough to make you uncomfortably warm.

It cooks my speech. Flays my sight. Promises blankets of solace, and instead delivers smothering tendrils of smoke. Touch my cheek. Rest your observations on the pink that seemingly speaks in demure humility. I am not willing.

I am heated.