It’s always been a favourite pastime of mine

to overthink - to the point

where reality jumps off the nearest bridge

in wild desperation of some cool respite

 

and with it, holding hands in brave solidarity,

my singed and sorry sanity.

 

Humility is not long after, for

I’m afraid, these all-consuming flames

are self-centred, self-absorbing;

burning everything in their path

like billowing bales of great wildfire.

 

But recently, I’ve turned detective.

 

Investigation: who is this arsonist?

Did some person long ago

throw great chugs of gasoline,

light a match on me,

in some desperation of their own?

 

Or,

God forbid,

all of this time,

has it been me?

 

Unfortunately,

I think I know.