women are arsonists

Women are arsonists. They start fires and simply walk away.

But sometimes that fire grows and grows and transforms into something that could consume them. That something is me, watching you, your every move, listening to your steps, peeking into your life every chance I can, watching, waiting, listening, an unceasing fire, unceasing desire.

You. You started this fire. Maybe it was with a look or maybe it was something you said. Did you say 'love?' Why do you use these words so carelessly? I've never known a love such as this. I burn. I desire.

I am this fire you started. I am consumed by this fire. It grows. I'm gone now. The charred remains of what I once was are all that remain, a memory, the trust that you once had, it's gone. You fear me. You should fear fire. It's an awesome and destructive force, but it's something that could be controlled. Instead you lit a match and simply walked away. You played with fire. Now that game is over, yet the fire grows and grows, burning and burning, smoke billows out. You ignore the destruction that you've caused. You pretend that you've done nothing wrong, but if the tables were turned it would be my fault. I'd be held accountable for my actions. Not you, no, you can go hide behind that other guy, the one fire that you let keep you warm at night, while this one burns, unattended.

A million scary stories have been told around fires. Nothing is heard around this one but the crackling of a burning desire that burns and burns seemingly endless. You turn away, in hopes that it will simply go out, forever. Instead, this fire is a monument to all that is desired, and so it burns and burns simply to memorialize a moment, simply a moment, when you decided it would be okay to say those things and to look this way in such a way that sparked these embers into a roaring flame of desire. But you walked away, and when confronted, you fear that fire that burns in me. You hide behind another fire, one that burns differently, controlled, just as you want it. This fire is dangerous, you hide behind a traffic cone tossed into a space, interrupted, you talk about your nipple piercing. You place a million other petty desires between us. The fire burns with hate, spurned desire, jealousy.

A fire burns out when it consumes all of its fuel. This fire will not cease until it burns you.