My mistakes were made for you

Each year in December I celebrate with a down tone abuse, The Great Fire. The day I turned myself to ashes. It was the day I angered my heart and brought down on me the hatred of all the gods I have in my head. They turned me into an animal. The gave me the hunger. For what I thought I had to let go of, the punishment was to carry it with me always.
And so, each week for two years now, I dreamed of prickled tattooed skin. Of lips like airports on which my kisses never land anymore. My entire world is on hold. The object of my religion is lost somewhere, on the bottom of the sea. In a town I still call home from time to time.
All this thinking has corroded me somehow. Transformed my emotional landscape into an industrial park where worry flows from factories of doubt.
I was cursed with the conviction that there is fun in fright. Beauty in terror. A sublime wonder in every attraction. Now that I look closer, the flowers watered by this belief always wither before their time.
Days are spent beautifully but in the company of blind horses and sinister birds. My body will migrate to Budapest, Berlin, Monaco, and eventually die in Montevideo. It peered from rooms at mountains dressed in snow. And from this body, this windowless room, my soul peered outside.
It often thinks that my mistakes were made for you. That you are the reason I still play with the last of the shadow puppets. It believes in secret messages that only you can get...and sincerely hopes you ignore them.
I have proved to be poison, time after time. And I am conscious of my nature although I completely despise it. I am the shadow of the devil on a seashore, but my coat hangers are filled with angel wings. I fear sometimes that I am nothing but form and no substance.
That my toxic dreams of us hanging out clothes to dry under a foreign vanilla sky are just sick fabrications of a man obsessed with torture. His own and of the things he loves.
I have hanged out on rooftops for centuries drinking from crystal glasses. I drank from plastic  bottles on never ending empty sidewalks. I played with cats and they played with me.
I have seen the finale of a thousand lives. I have seen snow bury me and melt on me in cold showers. Yet you are my oldest memory.
I remembered you at 3 when I fell of a horse. At 13 when I slipped silently into a coma. At 3 a.m when my arm hurts. On the 31st at the funeral of each year. 
I remembered you from uncountable time before I met you. You are my catastrophe. The voice that crumbles the buildings I plan in my head. The wind the pulled me from little Tuscany. The voice that made me abandon Rome, Lausanne, Marseille Moscow and probably will throw me out of Birmingham as well. The desperate hope that returns me to my home every once in a while.
To watch with blood shot eyes, the flags on our streets lying dead in the morning.
Yea, each time I'm home. I hope. Nothing more. Because I have rules by which I function. I know that I deserve what I have been given. The loss, the confusion, the tragedy. I earned each bit of it. This heart is on quarantine. I made it ill trying to forget everything. It will not function anymore. It will not let anyone else in.
Now, at 6 am in the morning, I effortlessly remember: my whole existence this past couple of years was but a resurrection call. But the dead should stay dead shouldn't they?