the love of my life

it was not i. the scathing steam - recoiling skin unwrapped. me naked beneath an orange sun, i pretend that my script was written by my parents. by my school teachers, by the bullies in the front courtyard, i pretend i am not crying inside when a scare crow takes shape: i fly to the outskirts, to the black caves of which bats without much eyesight make sound. i understand that better. incorrigible, an absence of you - the warm sunset soaks on my skin i feel not. dare not try to take in warmth when a crow simply watches. studies then pounces on the left overs because - it cannot curtail those appetites, my orange sun drizzled, bled out from real fire intense. hateful me. the flight in the caves still beeps, sonic sound vibrated in my soul, i echoed back: beep, i wrapped shadows tight for without a face, comfort lingers - an apparition departing suddenly, from a cardiac arrest. then the wings fell off; crude toy wings made by the now bankrupt company still afloat. i rested on debris, pecking at dirt, believing in my reflection where the orange warmth still etched on a paper painting. it gave no inclination, leaning neither in or out when a fire neared or backed away - and scare crows took life, ripping out the pages from a still work of art burning out like chewed out embers waiting to die. appetites came again of hunger, of vanquishing bats screaming eerily in my head, they made no vibrations, no sound, just electricity shooting up towards that tiny dot of hope, a center in the sky. a hole. appetites of drinking fire and never being burnt. appetites of becoming a scare crow, to be planted like a tree with a home. then i beckoned towards - ember not yet dead. a spark left. a puzzle to be solved. i was once that glowing warmth, like a tiny heartbeat in a shadowed world, and the bats they were only just bats. how did i become this flying crazy bird believing i could be both? the field became as fire, the appetites became as fire, ablaze, i remember how it was to be alive.