Flame
I should hate it
I should resent the way it tore into things
And destroyed them with ease

I should hate the way it lit my mother's cigarettes
And released smoke into my lungs that caused my asthmatic symptoms
I should hate the way it deteriorated my health
And left only a beating heart to overpower my shriveling lungs

I should hate the way I used it
And gave flame to things in the days of my young stupidity
I should hate the way I watched it with awe
And loved the feeling of turning photographs to nothing but ash and soot

I should hate the way I touched it
And mutilated my skin without pain or care
I should hate the way I enjoyed it
And liked the look of the scars littering my body

But most of all,
I should hate the way I embodied it
And allowed it to become my friend
When I had no one else to save me in the end