The Fire. The Flame. The Marks. The Gain.

I was never good at putting fires out.
I’ve always loved the flame too much.
Always willing to get burned, ’cause that’d mean being able to touch It.
I’ve made the sacrifice, unknowingly, more often than not.
But now I’ve gotten distance; I’ve gotten perspective.
Sometimes I can’t feel the heat anymore.

I was never good at putting fires out.
They just happened to find their own way, burning everything in sight, sometimes in the blink of an eye.
Then and only then would their power cease.
But it never ceases to amaze me.
When I feel a spark.
Or when I’m pulled by the dark.
What could this mystery entail?

I’ve got the scars to prove it — I’m not afraid to jump into the fire.
For fear of the unknown is nowhere near as great as the fear of not having the scars, of not diving in deep and coming out on the other end, exclaiming “AH! what a life it’s been!” only to climb back up and attempt to dive deeper than I could even fathom.

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