The world is telling you that he is maybe not the best one for you, and you know that. You know it because his hands leave burns across your dove-feather skin and you can’t get enough of the heat. You can’t get enough and all you want is to be a raging fire, a complete inferno of him, him, him. You want to burn in his arms, become the ash that floats in his lungs. You will dance 1000 years in the chaos that is his eyes, and still never smell the smoke.
— Poetry At Most, Napalm