Am I too late? Is this to “immolate”..?

The flame that you lit
burned me -
caused me to scarper,

and the black ash
that remained -
the harbinger,
was far darker
than what I’d imagined.


It stained
every day since.


Like ink.

Truth.

Pushed to the brink.



I tend to the scars
from your fire…


I wash them,

and dry them,

and then add a salve -

but like Peter Rabbit
struggling free
from the briar,

I have a plan for only a second ahead
of escape -
no future planned,
no kindly retire.


As much as I try
to silence,
to quiet -
I still hear you say

“YOU FOOL.”

“YOU LIAR.”

“I SEE YOU, FULLY.”

“INTO THE LIGHT”.
“OUT OF THE MIRE.”