Last night I dreamt that it all happened again.

It was more of a nightmare, then.

Thrashing in my sleep as it all came

crashing back. The way your touch set my skin

on fire--not the kind that I'd giggle over, remember

fondly, but the kind that burns and blisters

and re-surfaces, scars re-opening

just when I'd thought I was over it.

I still remember my nightmare, in fact

I'm never not remembering it. Everything

else has become foggy with pain

since that night, I can't see past it.

I'll keep it to myself and my dreams,

because your useless pity

over something I acted like I wanted

only isolates me. Don't tell me

it's not my fault. I didn't do anything

to stop the flames, so save

your breath. I'd rather let the fire

from that night encase me in flames

a little more every day, deepen

the half-healed scars

until I'm too exhausted from months

of this pain - false-healing - flashbacks cycle

to try and treat the burns.