What a burn love really is. Like the unfortunate cigarette that happens to fall onto the frail skin of your wrist. And you are completely taken aback, worried that the sting may stay longer than you had hoped for. And it does. And it burns. It burns down to your very fucking veins and it opens you up - flooding you like an oasis of all your favorite nightmares. Of everything you protect yourself from. Of all those menacing things floating patiently in your blood - waiting to explode.
You feel so vulnerable. Everyone’s looking at your blood now; telling you how to clean up this mess you’ve made. These stains have ruined your clothes, they say. But you worry for your sanity. For that nagging pain in your left arm that comes and goes between alternate glasses of beer. And now you wish you had had the courage to toss that fateful cigarette away when it was all burnt out - instead of holding on to it for that last beautiful vision. The vision of paper turning into ash while each ember crackles and glows between your fingers. And you sit there looking at the prettiest burn-down in the entire universe while the fire silently enters your fingers. While the blood carelessly flows. And all you do is look. And all they do is look. And so does he.
A scar for everyone to see.