The Flame

The scorching.
Sometimes it rips through my being.
Sending it’s sparks down my spine.
Those sparks fuel the fire,
And soon it shall send out the sparks again.
Oh the repeating is as constant as a metronome.
Tick, Tick.
They want to give me relief.
Four hours of freedom whilst they put out the flames.
But it has its own consequence, doesn’t everything?
The relief can overtake me too.
But it is fine and dandy,
Because I stay with the scorching
Because behind the scars and burnt flesh.
The pain is the only way I know it’s still there.
That it hasn’t left.
And under the control of something that takes it away…
How will I know it’s all done and over?
I’ll take the pain.