We draw disfigured, fragile portraits of ourselves and trace it with ink. When we try to erase our edges, we cannot. We are paralyzed, gripped within the confines of our secluded and abandoned sanity. The demons in the river of our reflection. We can only mask our phantoms with paper, and eventually paper wilts. Slowly crippling back into the soil from which it came. We aid the match, foster the flame. Let the blister burn and crawl from the back of our conscience into the spotlight once more.
Old habits die hard.
But God can breathe entity. His redemption and grace can heal blue flamed burns.