I fade away with each passing week, each day, each hour. I'm slowly burning up. No one seems to realize this. I have trouble accepting it. But it's happening. The smouldering ashes burn my insides and each morning I expect my skin to be melting in the mirror. I expect my bones to be cracked and smoking, black ash and blue flame creeping out of my mouth and eyes. And each morning I fall deeper as I realize I'm the only one who knows what's really going on in my body. There is little proof to te pyromania errupting inside, the blaze knawing at my stomach, the smoke filling my lungs.

My body shows some signs. Only I know they connect to the sparks within. Blood bubbling, boiling over from my broiling chest, pouring out of my mouth as though it wished to be a waterfall. Constant heat; I'm burning up. I crave the cold but I know it will leave me breathless afterward, and the wildfire inside me will flare up when I'm alone. My hair and eyelashes are singed and falling apart. Broken, and smoking. But only I know the true extent of the inferno and why it spread so fiercely.  Why the single wavering flame at the beginning of fall has caught and spread through every fiber of my being, engulfing me in this anguish and agony.

I burn as if doused in gasoline, like my skin is paper and my insides twigs. My body is nothing compared to this unearthly embers licking my organs, this hell sent punishment for my impossible desires, my demonic mind, my unneeded existance.

Sometimes, though, I don't feel it. The ardor inside abates and the heat dissapates, and all I'm left with is cold. Cold that I crave so much, the cold that melts into a warth that is the best feeling in the world. It's all that I want, all that I need. It leaves me wanting more.

But all it does is fuel the fire. The fire will never end, as long as the ice still remains.