Are you sure?

I’ve already told myself a couple of times to stop being the storm. To stop being the word of mouth before and after I subconsciously rip and tear everything apart. But I couldn’t help spinning and picking up pieces as if to mend them but only leave windows and doors open. Hearts and souls wounded.

I’ve already told myself a couple of times to stop being the scorching heat. To stop assuming that a little more brightness could help the darkened little corner. That it wouldn’t burn the whole place down like the arson that I truly am.

Perhaps I’ve told myself to stop being the feline as well. To stop purring for a hand to run over my fur, before I raise my claws to scratch it away.

But I am the feline. I am the flame, the storm, and I didn’t know. I come and leave a horrible mark we once thought was beautiful. A little like the scar you’d get from riding the bike with no hands.

No. I don’t think you should get scarred or burnt by me.