I don’t want to have to stick my hand into the fire to cool the coals. Nor do I feel justified in extinguishing the fire with a bucket full of cold resentment.

I am tired. I am tired. Put the fire away and at least we can share the silence. It’s all I have, it’s all I am, and it’s all you’ve got.

I know you don’t know. A flame consumes, even if it doesn’t mean to. I don’t want to blame you for burning me, it’s just how life made you. But I am burned. And even after all these years the heat still hurts. I’m still afraid of it. Afraid of the feeling of being burned at a stake for taking space.

I have nothing left to give you. All my oxygen was sucked into your flame long ago. I am brittle bone and ash… and as I try to piece together what remains of my remains you say things like “I want us to be friends. You can trust me. You can tell me anything.” What the fuck?

I am me again, sitting beside you in awkward silence. The rapid staccato of the pulse in my head drums home that yes, I am broken. You do not see how deep the cracks go, you do not know. You sit with the silence I have always given and while I know that you know something is wrong I am empty.

I sit in the back seat and suffer in silence as my guardians do battle. I am small and fragile and I don’t know why my world is ripping itself apart. Is it my fault? I don’t know, I just want the silence inside to flood out and dose the flames or just drown me instead.