Devil's Night Comments

I warm my hands with a lighter in the chill of late October, after burning fallen leaves and scattering their ashes onto a sea of broken asphalt. I have nowhere to go, and I almost hope they find me out here after the curfew and take me away to somewhere warm. It's unseasonably cold, and snowflakes dot my black hoodie giving it the appearance of a universe of stars building on my hunched body. The glow of this burning city drowns out the real stars, and I don't know if I believe in them anymore. What proof do I have?

I can feel myself shaking, and it gets worse the harder I try to stop it. I hear sirens over the charred rooftops that are the remnants of this twisted holiday. But I guess I'm an arsonist too, burning myself with cigarette butts just to feel something. I think this city feels nothing too, so maybe that's why they used to burn it on this night. F**k the police, I'll burn my skin all I want until it peels, or until I'm picked up and locked away for the night. But once they see these fresh cigarette burns they'll probably take me back to the psyche ward instead. I'm totally aware that I'm not very sane, or does knowing that make me sane?
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