(P is for) Pyre

Warnings: Language, blasphemy, lack of editing.

Honestly, I don’t even know what this is. It’s just a piece that’s been gnawing at my brain today.

Burn it down, burn it down. Burn every motherfucking part of this fucker down. Find what you can live without, and pile that fuel high, kid. You want those flames to be burning the asses of the gods themselves. A little fire isn’t right for a night like this one. Moon’s full, time’s right, let that wasteland burn.

Yes. Sure. You can just grab some firewood from the fuel stop if that’s what you wanna do. Can we focus here?

Let the flames roar like a living raging thing a while, let it get good and angry at being contained. You throw in the pictures of the two of you, every smiling lying piece of it. The letters, the gifts, the memories. You throw them to the flames, and you let those fuckers burn. There’s mojo in those things, there’s mojo trapping you here. Burn it away, kid. Burn it away. Then you take that doll, the doll I made for you last night, and you kiss it goodbye and you throw that doll in there, too.

Yeah, I know I told you it’s an image of you. I ain’t dumb, kid.

You throw yourself into flames like that, you’re meeting gods and devils and never coming out again. But you gotta throw yourself in. That’s what the doll is for. You throw that piece of you into the flames, and the flames think it is you. Flames, kid, they work the magic but they don’t know nothing about the humans making them work. They touch a piece of you, they think it’s you, and the magic, it works. So you throw a version of yourself into the flames, and you burn away every binding that’s tying you in place. You come out the other side singed and purified. The doll? For fuck’s sake, kid, what do you fucking think happens when you throw a fucking cotton doll into a goddamn bonfire? Y’ain’t getting it back. Jesus. You’re lucky you got yourself a pretty face, kid, because the gods were damned stingy on the brains.

Do I take the doll home after? Jesus fuckity Christ, kid. You’re actually killing me, here. But hey, if taking some ash home makes you feel good about your life choices, you go right a-fucking-head. Put it in an urn and call it grandma for all I care.

What do you mean what happens then? What do you want to have happen? Dance if you wanna. Sit and watch the life you thought you were gonna lead burning if that feels right to you. You spend that time sayin’ your goodbyes, kid. Cry if you wanna, smoke if you gotta, shout the things you shoulda said into the flames and see if it helps. You get every last goodbye out of your system before that fire burns itself you. You angry? Be angry. You hurt? Be hurt. You glad this clusterfuck is over? Celebrate. You feel it all and then you throw it all into the flames to burn away to nothing.

That’s what this needs to be to you, in the end. Nothing. You gotta move on, kid, and deep down, you know it, too.

When you’re feeling like it’s done, like your every emotion’s been sent out and let loose into those fires, you take that bag of salt, and you throw handfuls into the fire. Walk the boundaries of the fire, feel it burning at your skin, and throw the salt into that blaze anyway. You gotta salt and burn the remains of the life you were gonna live if you ever wanna find the life you’re headed to now.

Now how in the fuck should I know where your life’s headed? Do you see a crystal ball anywhere here? Any tarot cards? Can you smell yourself some goddamn incense anywhere about your person? No? There’s your fucking answer.

 

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