in a desert drought like this
burnt bridges never matter
so I walked through
that town
with Ale-8 bottles
leaking
kerosene
and my fingers
turned to flint
setting sparks
in every
parking lot
from here to
anywhere
until I was
drowning
in the flames
myself
needing air
and fearing it
too
and now
I can’t hold a thing
without
burning holes
in it
and I know there’s
no sympathy in
slow suicides
like me
so for now
I'll carry on
at a
slow
slow
pace
a recovering pyromaniac
standing in the rain