If I combust and if I burn today, it didn’t happen all of a sudden. I didn’t randomly turn into a big mess of flames and smoke and despair. You saw it happen, you nurtured the flames, made them go higher until they consumed my whole being. It’s your constant pressure and it’s your constant comments. It’s your obvious disappointment when I do not conform to all of your expectations. It’s your lack of a helping hand when I stumble and fall because your foot tripped me. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.
You don’t blame the paper you put above a burning candle for catching fire. You don’t blame the piece of wood you throw in the flames for igniting. And when you set bushes ablaze, and run away on the mess you made, they will all tell you. It’s arson.
This is a piece I wrote with pain in my heart and anger in my brain. But I liked the metaphor so I kept it.