Talk about the fires, you say.
It devours your breaths until your lungs are pulverized bones. It consumes your head until your sights can only see fiction. It heightens your sorrow so you can get another eye. It flicks its tongue against your skin until it is a stitched figure in your part. It burns your memories until every single day when you wake up, it is the first thing you think about. It never cries when you die. It never feels the light, even it has it. It speaks of you.
You never talk about us, you say.
Have I not yet?
WORD COUNT: 103
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