This is, I imagine,

what self immolation feels like:

the pregnant pause just before the match is lit,

intoxicated by the fumes of gasoline and suicide.

Striking tinder to create the missing spark,

God, when it catches,

the beautiful heat of the flame that burns

already familiar with its caress,

how intimately it becomes entwined with flesh,

removing the layers of clothes between

wanting nothing

to stand in the way of this sear.

There will be nothing

except echoes in ash of an exercise in futility.

Burn away what you cannot save

And in the end, you are left with nothing.