Confessions in Morning Light

i was on fire, set ablaze. i am fireball and fog, smoke and shots. the sparks soak into the skin of my friends, of the night. i think i burn them all. i tip back my head, hollow a can and see the stars dull in the jet black abyss, lost in the fumes, soaked in the smog, and think of how much brighter they all are at home. and i am young and lonely and loyal like forceful fire. i confuse empathy for egotism and benevolence for embarrassment. i destroy my body for my mind and think i’m manic and missing from perfectly safe cages i resided in. covered in hot fuel, i burn at my edges every time i light myself with liquor, petrol and diesel, gasoline and metal. i am chemically bound in bars and i watch the embers glow in the hand sanitiser in little glasses. i anticipate waking up in my temporary bed and seeing all the ashes of myself lay about, my room, the grass, the pavement. i try to contain them inside myself again without knowing they are lost to the winds and the rains and the waves that mop the shore. the regrowth will be slow, but in the morning sunlight singular snippets of green will emerge from the peeling trees, and the air will one day be clean again.