We have such appetites. We search for beauty and clip and cage it. And when it dies, we toss it unceremoniously away. We soil the purest of hearts, ridicule the innocent of minds.
Everything touched turns to dust. Careful where you step. Careful where you go.
Between fingertips, pin a butterfly by his wings and the delicately painted cells strip clean and the shiny dust sticks between your thick child fingers, clumsily erasing the only joy he has in this world. And he flutters away, reduced to less than a moth, to hide his shame in the shadows for the remainder of his life.
Dreams so high, so far they fall. Planting flowers to watch them all die. Why?
You are a body of flames. Be careful what you touch.
I look in the mirror in fear. I see the things I do left on my own. So much damage, I can do. Don’t give me anything. Don’t let me have anything. I will only destroy. I have no good to offer this world.
I deserve nothing.
Can anyone deserve anything? Do people deserve things? What do they do to merit things? And who or what told them they were to be rewarded for these grand deeds?
We make the rules up as we go. We make sure they align just right so that we are on track, veritably in right standing with our own standings. We justify our offenses and forget them with ease because we couldn’t possibly ever be wrong. We never could be mistaken. There can’t be anything wrong with getting what we want. Doing what we need to do to be happy. To be successful. To be satisfied.
We deserve it all. And whatever burns in our hands should consider it an honor to burn by our flames. Our magnificent flames as we take, and we take, and take and return nothing but desecration. Nothing but desolation. Leaving vast blackened ruins wherever we go.
But we could never be arsonists.