Burned Hands and Forgotten Good Times

I wring my hands,

when I can't find yours,

buried in blankets of

insecurities.

You have hoarded 

your bitterness 

in messy piles,

leaving no path

free of

expired tv dinners

and misunderstandings. 

I peeked past those

garbage bag expectations.

There was no way

of cleaning it. 

I wring my hands.

Thought it might ignite

a flame,

like twigs and matches.

Burn your haunted house

down 

to the ground. 

I dash forward for eternity,

trying desperately to 

put out 

my smoldering bonfire,

in your flammable mountains. 

Wring my hands raw.

Each time I press my heel

into the flame,

you have started

another burning reason

why I'm no 

firefighter.

I question your sincerity, 

rather than climb

in after

the crying baby,

on the top floor. 

I wring my hands.

The hurt you

lit in me, 

will linger longer

then the years old ash,

still lining my fingernails. 

You knew

damn well 

I can't put out a fire. 

You knew my

extinguisher

was back under my own

pile

of cluttered

good intentions.

I will lose

all use

of my fingers,

if I light your cigarette

once more.

Burned hands

and forgotten good times,

can't make us see 

through smoke.

 

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