Will we break with our own hands? Just another guitar, once loved, left in pieces on the stage — a victim of the stress and blinding lights that guide our everyday lives.

In the heat of the moment we have an infallible excuse; anger. But what’s left when the flames die down but the ashes? The burn in my cheek only matches that in the palm of your hand, a trail of embers still lay lit between you and I.

The regret in your eyes is already begging for forgiveness, apologies and never agains rushing past trembling lips between too few breaths.

But anger is kinetic, one fire only leads to another and it’s my time to burn. I can taste your shame melting on my incensed tongue as it battles your own. It’s a passion fueled by violence, and we’ll ride it out to the wick’s end.

Saving the hurt for when the smoke clears.