we like to play with fire.
as it eats away at our
insipid nature, and licks the
desolate consistency of our bones,
our inner cold is warmed.
you say that it reminds you
of my fevered eyes.
we make scarecrows into humans
into saviors, then tear them down again
for not cleansing out our wounds.
we forget they were only born
to keep the birds from
devouring us further.
and they watch, feebly, as we
fall face-first into our fate
you looked me dead in the eye
"we are all walking ghosts
waiting to die so we can live"
and your whitened hands became
a symbol of achievement
we write our epitaphs the day we're conceived,
like a taunt to something greater to come
and steal us away in the middle of the night
from the livelihood we were promised.
but it's less than that, we're erasing
all definitions of chance. we're
marking the path we never want to follow.
we drift in and out of self-awareness,
human consciousness, competing philosophies,
delusions of grandeur and deeper
relevance until the day
something tells us
[something being a tear in the cloth,
an unwanted abnormality to send you
down a hole of questionable regrets]
we played out our whole lives wrong
but our destiny's already been scrawled
into the history books
we like to play with fire
to know that we're alive