by Sam Obermiller
When you were younger, someone held a box of matches.
One by one they would hand you a match, and you would watch it burn.
They never picked the matches that burned the brightest or the colorful ones,
only the ones they thought were the best for you.
Sometimes, if you were lucky, you could pick what they handed you,
but the decision was always theirs.
One day, they handed you the matchbook.
The choice was yours–you could burn any match you wanted any time you wanted.
Cautiously, you pick one, and let it burn to your fingersIt shines and glows and you love the match and feel sadness when it burns down.
Another match replaces the first.
The beauty of this one is unmatched,
you again feel a twinge of emptiness when it burns fully.
There is less reasoning now, you burn two matches at once.
You can handle the flame,
you handled one so easily before.
The two burn hotter and brighter; they singe your hand,
but the spectacle was worth it.
You grab a handful, lighting them all at once.
Your need to fill the void has caused you to bite off more than you can chew.
When the flame reaches your fingertips, it catches.
The fire is searing, engulfing.
For the first time, you feel the emptiness while the fire still burns.
You wish only for everything to stop, to go back to the time
when someone burned the matches for you.
You are burnt out.