Nihilistic Pyromaniac

Looking down, curling broken feet,

through the pungent odour of burnt cotton,

My clothes are burned,

flesh cavernous and scarred,

fibers exposed and charred,

 

I am ash,

worthless and grey,

a dust of ill-used matches,

burning for the sake of curiosity,

Whimpering in the wind and dying away,

a pathetic flutter of mellowness and drama,

Burning nothing,

 

I light nothing,

left alone in the dark,

choking on soot,

 

Childrens fingertips covered in black,

Smudges on the mirrors and knobs,

down the drain to join the mold under vinyl floors,

 

Swept into a corner,

the soft brush strokes of tarnish,

caking towards the frame,

the modest touch up on a pealing painting,

 

I am decrepit,

used up, and dirty,

the product of a nihilistic pyromaniac,

How dare you call me beautiful,

How dare you care,

 

No matter the tenderness,

Destiny dictates decay,

structure is deceitful,

In the softness of your exhalation,

“I love you”

The human face collapses,

and crumbles,

unrecognizable,

 

I,

am,

nothing,

 

To this,

To you,

Everything

This poem is about: 
Me

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