I stand here,
lit match in hand
at the start
of the bridge.
I stand here,
breathing in
the smoke from
the smouldering remains
behind me.
My eyes water
and my lungs hurt
and my fingers sting
from the flames.
This is what I have always done.
One part of my life finishes
and I destroy the evidence
the only way I know how.

I don’t want to do this.
Why am I doing this?

I do it anyway.