Saffron A. Kent

“It-It burns when you look at m-me,” I whisper, my tongue feeling heavy.

“Flames dance in your eyes, in them the fire resides.

Turning me into ashes. Black and p-powdery.

It…It’s a slow process. My disintegration.”

“Jesus, Layla. Look at yourself. You need to take care of yourself.

“No, you’re not. You hate me. You’re always giving me a death glare, like I’m responsible for, I don’t know, terrorism or global warming or something.”