Reflections of a flame.

As the fires burn out, it sits, crackling. The self, it sits quietly beside. A reflection, perhaps, of what was. And as it stares silently, a trickle forms, leading down to the burnt ground.

Sizzle.

What unnecessary actions, what stupidity. Once it started, stepping back against a wall helps no more than to shield the face with his hands. Flesh, it burns the same in the flame, to a sizzling sound that remains, much like a ringing sound trapped in the ears after silence falls. Silence - filled with eeriness, with pain, with guilt, with disappointment, with hurt. With tears.

And it seems impossible to speak out anymore. One wrong tips more fuel, resulting in another all-too-familiar recurrence. What then? The self realizes: he can only offer his hands, at least while he can still use them, till consumed.

As the self sits and stares, the fire waits, expecting more fuel, expecting more flesh. Till death, till nothing to burn exists. And it shall crackle on till it burns itself out.