Striking matches

I want you to know that it hurts to watch you cover yourself in gasoline and light that stupid match that I tried to hide on the top shelf of the pantry. But you pushed a chair up and felt around for it with your stubby little fingers and now you're on fire and I can feel the heat from where I stand. I know you think the flames are pretty but they aren't as pretty from my point of view. Not with the charred flesh dancing through them. 

The drugs made you numb to this stuff but doesn't it hurt? Don't you feel ANYTHING? 

I warned you. I told you she was toxic back in April. But those April showers washed away your doubts and those flowers in May seemed just as good to you in black and white.

I knew she'd make you colorblind.

She's got a big, beautiful ring on her finger that matches the chains on your ankles but her kisses make the metal lighter and you still haven't noticed that she threw away the key.

Her mood changes but you blame it on hormones. She's got a whole hell of a lot of hormones. It's not her fault. It's the hormones.

You stopped being you the moment you slid that ring on her finger. 

Now I'm begging you to come back. I miss our lame Saturday nights on my couch watching R rated movies.

I want the old you, not the one covered in flames.

There's a reason I never stood too close to fire.