My matchbox

I watch the match I light spark and burn,
the scent rich to my nose as the drugs poor through my system.
The name on the matchbox haunts my life,
bringing memories of broken dollhouses, and bruised faces.
I watch the match burn away,
remembering a ruined childhood,
left with only memories and more scars.
The drugs numb me,
but I still continue to light a match,
letting the flame burn through the wick like a disease.
The flame is my muse tonight,
burning brightly and sharply,

I crave it tonight,

when all else,

seems to fade into nothing.

I relish in the smooth sound of the match,

grinding against the phosphorus.

Slowly one by one I remove another match,

leaving its brothers behind, to face their death soon enough.

They paint a pretty picture those matches,

all lined up ready and waiting,

their red coated heads making their purposely rudely obvious.

Pictures of far away lands paint the box,

somewhere I've never been,

never plan to.

The warning label amuses my drug induced mind,

the danger in themselves already overstated.

They all seem so foolhardy,

imprisoned in their paper fortress.

I shall be their white knight for now,

saving them from my pretentious thoughts,

wayward hands,

and distant mind.