funeral pyre

i wake up with the same pain every night, digging a hatchet into my left side, clearing my chest of something to burn, ash for a decorative urn you keep in your mantelpiece;, like a trophy for everything, that withers eventually, call me a coward, but i'm too scared to leave, 'cause i want you to be the last thing i see, call me a coward, but i'm too scared to leave, watched you pouring lighter fluid out onto the leaves, and i would've loved you with the dying fire, let you smother me down to the embers, frostbite turning my limbs as black as cinder of funeral pyre, and i would have stayed if you asked me to, stood outside till my lips turn blue, i wouldn't have blamed you, for leaving me there on the porch while you drank gasoline, 'cause it's what you needed so bad, and it's true, it's nothing that we could do