Why is happiness only temporary then it all comes crashing down? It all blows up in your face. I’m a leaky faucet over a live wire. I try to stop it. I really do. But there is really only so much water the wire can take. It is a ticking time bomb. Then the beautiful growl of water hitting the wire sends embers dancing across my bedroom like shooting stars. At that moment, I reach for anything to stop my house from going up in flames. I don’t reach for water. I reach for firewood. Firewood is the closest thing next to me. The thing I always forget is that firewood isn’t made to put out flames, it’s made to feed them. I grab the firewood anyway. The fire devours the sticks I graciously put in front of it. The flames lick the logs staining them an ashy gray. Then they march up my walls eating away at the softwood planks. I can hear them cackle like witches. I smile. I laugh. I snicker. The electric orange reflecting across my eyes like blistering suns. I feel unstoppable. I feel powerful. I feel alive.

   But then the doubt sets in. Silly little girl, you're playing with fire and you’re gonna get burned. The flames move closer, stroking my cheeks. My skin turns icy. The heat is so warm it’s blisteringly cold. I don’t feel powerful anymore. I want to feel alive again. The flames slowly fade away into the darkness of the night. I need to burn again. I need to run wild. I need to feel that feeling where you’re floating through outer space. You’re body light and loose as you fly through the seas of galaxies. Euphoria cascading through your body like a waterfall. You spin and twist and turn through the vast crystal sky in utter bliss. 

   I guess I’m pretty good at self-sabotage. I keep going back to the flames even though my skin is lined with blisters and burns. My friends and family cried out in fear. I don’t wanna hurt them, but I do without even realizing it. There is just something so captivating about that feeling. Especially when things are already kinda sh*t. I am so good at self-sabotage. I almost want it to happen because people like me don’t deserve to be happy. I’d rather have nothing than bear the weight of knowing I’m gonna lose everything eventually. In the end, my desires are pretty simple. I wanna be liked. I wanna be loved. I wanna have fun. I wanna feel alive and free before time runs out. The junkies are taking pills like candy. The junkies are smoking weed as they breathe air. Taking shots and running across the city together through the dead of night. I wish I was like them. Even my problems are cliche. It’s kinda sad. It’s all that teenage angst bullsh*t. It took away my originality a long time ago. Now I’m just an archetype used in all those cringy teenage novels. Yes, you can cringe at what I’m about to say next. 

   I wish I was a lead actor in an indie coming of age film. I wish I were a powerful character with a tragic-comic book backstory. I wish I wasn’t so broken. I wish I wasn’t so mundane. Even my insecurities are cliche. I am so laced with unoriginality. I didn’t choose to be who I am. I never wanted to feel this way. Why did I get given this brain and this body? Why are the people I admire and the person I am trying to become down opposite paths? I wish I wasn't constantly searching for a friend group.  Why do I feel like my friends secretly hate me? Why do I always search for something to make me feel whole again? Why do I feel like when people find out who I really am they will leave me? Why do I constantly need to compare myself to others? 

   I hope one day I won’t need flames to feel alive. One day I will not feel so lonely. One day I won’t be searching for worth in dangerous places. I hope one day I can be my own fire. I will feel worth it for just being myself.