You tell me,
I am a walking inferno,
shoveling the way to hell
with my own shovel.
You tell me
I am pockets of fiery rage
that spent too long trying
to be cooled
by people who didn't understand.
You tell me
my fingers are cursed
with ignited sparks,
and my lips deserve caution tape
sealed across them.
I am magma
slowly reaching with upturned palms
I am crying ashes
I am searing pain
I am a little kid
touching a hot stove.
You tell me
I am destruction.
I'll tell you
I am fireplaces and hot cocoa.
My hands are reaching out
to spread love,
not flames.
I am a giant,
a gaseous explosion
a millenium away.
I am nebulae.
I am the words of the silent,
I am not who you believe
I was created to be.
I am not ablaze with rage,
but with warmth.
