You always looked down on me.
I never understood why until now.
I pleaded with you, saying that life didn't have to be misery,
but you didn't want a cure.
Clothes soaked and braids dripping with gasoline,
you wanted to burn.
Shame was your crown, your legacy.
You took pride in every little infraction,
tally-marking each lie,
as if it gave you worth.
Refused to do it right--
had to make it hurt.
You made your life a minefield.
Every step praying this would be the one.
Never mind the safety of those around you.
You'd sink the whole ship to the bottom of the ocean
for just one more high,
to rope in
one last rush of adrenaline.
Anything to make you feel alive.
You will go down in flames,
but there'll be no glory.
I see it now,
the end of your story.
You're running towards the ledge.
There's nothing I could've done or said,
because under all the "I love it," and "I'm fine's"
is the truth you're addicted
to your own demise.