I found beauty in the jagged edges of shattered glass

There's something beautiful about the possibility of pain, of seeing the way things could happen and finally understanding that they should not. Of realizing that the red hot embers in your blood are not screaming to come out but begging to stay in, to let them crackle and burn until the dead flesh has been carved out and new veins begin to sprout like trees after a fire. 

I am a forest that roars up in flames when I am touched or spoken to, a forest that fights the chance of rain because I deserve to smoulder and cry, because I need to prove to myself that I am right when I say that there is no good in this world.

At least then I'd be right.

The answers that I look for are in the corners of my mind that I haven't searched through since I was 11 years old and read the words

They

           Are

Dead

Dusty hollows I haven't dared venture into since I discovered

They 

          Are

Dead

Dead

Dead

Dead

How do you revive pieces of you that died before you were formed. When this fire finally dies down I won't be the pristine cluster of pine and maple that I was before, just the charcoal that they left behind. Everyone wants me to be the pristine forest of cedar and oak but I don't remember what that looked like. I don't remember how to be anything but burning.

What if it's worse?

At least when im covered in flames I can see some light.