The Burn.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
The burn is whatever ails your heart.

Submitted: November 08, 2013

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Submitted: November 08, 2013

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The heat shall burn through quickly. Most likely it'll burn holes into my skin first. For my skin is vulnerable. I do not necessarily need it. As long as I've gotten the bones wrapped around my heart; the skull grasping my brain. The heat is not pleasurable, but a smooth, raven-like claw. Piercing it's prey with each squeeze and yank. Undoubtedly, accompanying this burn is smoke. Filling my lungs, more fiercely than a cigarette. Ah-yes a cigarette. How romantic the idea of slow-burning death. To satisfy an urge, sexual or whatever othre urge there may be.

The smoke has settled and the burn has lingered. I've grown accustomed to the burn. I do wish for a new sensation, but all the world seems to offer is this burn. A new friend, maybe for life. It will grow with me as my bones harden and my skin calluses. As my hair turns grey, withers and falls to the ground like a leaf escaping a dyeing tree. The burn is now a part of my anatomy. It has dug into my soul and burrowed a nest of searing heat.

I have learned to believe in the burn, to trust the burn. It does not let me down. I am confident that in the morning, as in the night the burn will supply me with subtle hints of its presence. I am thankful for the burn. The burn reassures me that I am most certainly human. Without the burn I would be in constant fear of pain. The burn allows continuous pain. I lost fear in pain a long time ago.


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