Gas-Canned wounds.

The smell of gasoline fills the garage.
I'm drenched in oily, filmy gas.
My jeans are sticking to my thighs,
and my T-shirt is hanging wet around my torso.
My bare-feet stick to cement.
I pick up the little cardboard box, and open it slowly.
I pick out one little stick, wood with a red, blunt tip,
and take a deep breath.
I flick the match across the box, and watch it ignite.
I close my burning eyes,
and drop the match.
Flames engulf me, licking at my face and hair.
The little hairs on my arms burn off,
and I'm instantly bald.
I can feel my skin shriveling up,
peeling off my body.
My eyes sink further into my head.
My fiery lips kiss the stars one last time,
and whisper goodbye to the world.