a pyromaniac's confession: a memoir of secondhand suffering

my baby's back but he isn't the man i love anymore. of course i love him, but after months of distance he became someone i haven't ever met. he's still here but he moves around my room as a phantom, merely a wispy echo of his former self. 

he tries to shield himself from my view yet the flint sparks—fire illuminates his face and casts a shadow as he burns so brightly, i chase away embers as i know if i let go completely like i once did, he'll burst into flames entirely.

i know there's nothing i can do, not much i can change, but is staying crueler than walking away? no firefighter would walk away from a building caught ablaze, no moral man would leave flames to destroy everything in their path. but how can i extinguish a class d fire with nothing but trembling palms and a cupful of water and once i'm empty it'll only reignite.

my baby's back and not only is he no longer the man i loved, but i knew it was for the best when i initially left, is it harsh to say that i never wanted this back? my skin is a tapestry of molten memories, they're etched deep into my flesh. i am a map of past infernos where skin bubbled and hope blistered away. 

so i'll go. breathing air that isn't asphyxiating smoke burns my lungs but i know its for the better, the wind is cold and my arms are covered in goosebumps from such a stark contrast. when i lay in bed at night—if i'm quiet enough i'll hear the fire crackling still, his voice calling my name through the smog. i'll remind myself that some fires burn out on their own, that the damage is already done, and that bushlands littered with ash regenerate evermore. yet truthfully i know nothing about wildfires, i can't say anything certainly. does the end of a fire mean growth or death?

all i know is that to love me i cannot love you my baby, i am sorry that i am so selfish.