Firestorm

The firestorm brewing in my stomache

Is not kind

It tells me that I am a snake

It tells me that I am fake

It tells me that I have too many faces to even count and then some

Your friends think you're nice

Your brain thinks you're a witch

Brewing your love potions

Concotions of the mind

Wrapping them around your words,

Coiling them into contempt

Happiness, even

But you know deep down

That you are nothing more than a wicked piece of kindling

Waiting to watch the world burn