Black River

He says, I want you to be happy, but we both know what he is really saying. There is a giant clock over the bar but its hands don't move. You find yourself missing misery.  

Your words feel stunted, weighing each syllable against its own defense. The point is you'd choose misery and creative storms over peaceful sleep any day. And he doesn't know how not to encourage that in you, because it burns where few see the glow. 

You remember what the fire feels like. 

You miss its rage

against your skin.