Incendiary Blooms.

I walk down the city streets at night; the lights are so cold and violent. A shrill, fluctuating call echos into distinction. The flashing lights of a firetruck appear in the distance. It's a marvel. All this hatred and horror in the world, and then there are these men. Rushing to save someone's life.

It's sad but true, life is bound to get you down. Anyway, the world is pretty...

I've spent years of my life, worrying about these little fires I've started. Apparently, being strong doesn't mean you need to be flame retardant. But these little cinders and embers have made me stronger, so I guess a crucible was necessary.

It's sad but true, life can turn your smile into a frown. Anyway, the world is pretty upside down...

But lying in my hospital bed, recovering from the scorching fires and singeing embers, a question is called into play. In order to dress the wounds, one must call into question how authentic they are. So how real are they? As tears stream down my flame-licked face, I remember what you said. "He just likes playing hospital." But then again, it's like you said; "there's no such thing as accidents."

It's sad but true, but the gleaming white of the hospital floors won't tell you how to combat misery. Anyway, the world is pretty happy without you.

But it's like you said; "Nobody deserves to die for you, but you were awful firm when you said they had to like you or they had one other choice...

The fuzzy television, the gleaming window, and red roses. Flash. Swimming pictures, red confusion.
I suppose, if I rock should hit my head and I remember what you did, there will be orange and red flowers licking and flicking at your heels.

And memories of a torched apartment come flooding back. The shattered window. The blooming roses of fire. As I had walked into the apartment, peeling the mittens that had frozen to my wrists, I swear I heard a voice come from the kitchen.

"Oh, god..."
"Oh, god..."

"Oh, well..."