Aged 16, you ask a friend for a lighter.
He gives you one.
At night, you light it.
Illuminating the room.
You run your fingers through the flame.
It feels warm.
Soon, the lighter runs out.
You asked for another.
He doesn't have one.
You turn to matches.
You squeeze the tips so they burn your hand.
You do it again and again.
You push them into your arms.
You savour the feeling.
Wonderful.
You sneak out your window.
Going out into the night.
You find a small patch of beach.
You break open a lighter and pour the liquid over you.
You hold a match.
The last match.
You drop it.
Feed the need inside you.
Feed the pain inside you.
Feed yourself.
They find your body.
Burnt.
Unrecognisable.
You are put into a morgue.
Unnamed, it reads.
They burn you.
Placing you in an unmarked grave.
To be forgotton.
Not wanting to be forgotton.
That's why you played with fire.
….so someone would notice you.