Something About Matches

I'm not sure anymore. I can't seperate reality. Reality is cruel for sure. But fiction was never me. I like the smell of sulfer, And the lighting of the sound. I like the way you suffer, Bleeding through the ground. I like the way you gasp for air, In the little wooden box. I like the way I make it where, You're so afraid to cough. The sounds you make are funny as, You cry out for my help. But I'm the one holding the shovel, And my heart upon your shelf. I love the way you strike the match, And eat up all the oxygen. I love the way I locked the hatched, And buried you within. Oh I'd love let you burn alive or kill you with a hatchet. I'd love to kill you idly, But there's something about matches.