Oilfields

 And here's piece #2, coming straight at you from the depths of my depression! Or, at least, past depression. That's good, right?

Oilfields

Burning. My heart is burning. Set alight by a match, a torch, or what have you. It doesn’t matter, because it’s out of control. I feel it spread along my pipelines, my very soul burns away to fumes floating in the sky. I’ll let the tears fall as they miss the fire and salt the earthen flesh beneath. Those who observe this inferno see not how widespread it is. To that end, nor do I. Alarm bells sound, but there is no one there to hear me. Or maybe there are, but they’re as deaf as they are blind. So be it. And no one will watch the attempts made at control, to end the flaming terror. No one will see them fade into the oranges and the yellows, as if they were not there at all. But I feel their ashes. I feel their weight bear down on me, and for what? Are they for me to fall further as the heft of the pain sinks my feet into the ground? There was no proposition, I was not asked- I sank, I fell, due to what? I do not know if I had a choice in this. And if I didn’t, I feel no better. If I were at fault, if I was the one with the problems, I could fix them. I cannot, then if the pointer lands elsewhere. And every moment I am entrenched in this despair, every tear I shed feels unwarranted. Why cry when you have no regret, no guilt to cry about? Why, I say, indeed. And how do I learn from my mistakes to avoid a repeat offense if I did not make such a mistake in the first place? My hands are tied, if you will, but they are also bare. There was nothing I could’ve done. So work me to the bone as the oil streaming from my pores singes you as it surges from the pumps you’ve sewn to me. Because I am at my limit. Nothing you can do will hurt me any more than I do now.