The sensation of sorry

My soul was scorched. excavating the soft and tender leaving the bitter and dismal. Days after this grand liquidation sale with my gutted contents crumpled up in the contents of used tissues my ashen lips were clamoring for you, the boy who set the fire.
I had skinned myself of your touch, each day nurturing the tenderness back into my cheeks. Seeded under my renewing flesh was the devil of animosity begging me to hold on to a fragment of you. My healing process is fueled by the grueling fire of disdain. Even with your presence gone I seek you to be the platform of my existence. The ember of softness and genuine essence weeps inside of me, if only I spent those days searching my hollowed body for the fire simply waiting to ignite inside myself.
I realize now how repulsing and selfish I am, you pour so much into someone so they are pooling at the brim, but if that burning ember inside of them isn't properly tended and respected, their kettle will never brew.
I am sorry I couldn't have coaxed your ember
I am so sorry it had to be you.