Brittle, frozen, cracking, a hard lump in my chest. It was once soft, warm, and inviting to all those around it, like a fire in a hearth. Now it's more of a tumor to me than anything else. It's still pumping, oh it's still pumping, forcing that source of life - that poison - through my veins, but it's becoming slower, steadily slower, grinding to an agonizing halt. My blood was once as smooth as silk, vibrant and untainted, fueling the guiding flame that was my spirit. Now it has become thick and clotted with impurities, the sins and regrets of a life all too short corrupted beyond its years. With each labored pump my body becomes colder, my fingers number, my vision grayer. I'm no longer myself, I'm becoming a bitter and cynical husk, diseased by my own poison. The fire is nothing but a pile of burnt ashes, a ghost from which I can feel the faintest remnants of warmth, but even that is dying. All I can hope for is that I wither away before I forget that the flame ever existed.