The Tale of a Pyromaniac

Let me tell you a story
Of a beloved young man
Who played with fire one too many times
And was deemed a pyromaniac.

He carried ten lighters in his backpack
A few refillable ones, mostly disposable,
And lit fires after school let out
Though a kind person, very approachable.
His smile bright though shadowed
With underlying agony
Fires releasing him of pain
Burning himself to rid himself of tragedy.
I saw the fire burn in his eyes
Not just from the uproar of flames
Consuming notebooks, leaves, twigs,
But a fire of eternal shame.
He laughed and he stole hearts
Only to move from one to the next
Trying to fill a void with sex and fire
A longing so hard and complex.
He smoked and he drank,
Pulled out his lighter and flicked it
He got off on the heat
And the smell; a dirty mind trick.
He got caught one afternoon
Behind a bush and a granite bench
Lighters scattered around him
Bending over a screaming fire, his back hunched.
They noticed small circles of ash
Spread around the grass and dirt
They saw the fading scars on his arms and hands
And the soot patches on his sweatshirt.
They took him away
And got rid of the evidence
No lighters, no ashes, no fires
His tale the only remnant.

That is the short story
Of that young man,
My best friend,
Who was deemed a pyromaniac.