no sympathy for slow suicides

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