Burning out

An urge burns the walls of my heart. A fire rages inside. It wants something.
It wants to do something.
It wants me to do something.
It wants something from me?

I let this fire rage and burn.
I let these walls melt and blister.
I let it consume everything and grow into a wildfire, disregarding what it does to me.

I walk, I run, I jump,
I let time while itself away,
I let people brush past,
I hold on to some unlike anything else,
I eat, I starve, I drink endlessly.
I grin with my teeth bare, I laugh my lungs flat.
I love and never hate. I only befriend.
I write things for you, I erase them because you're worth more than just those!
Is this what the fire wants me to do? It's the one question that chases everything I do.
The fire doesn't tell me what it wants. It wants me to understand it. But, well, do I?

I let it burn through. After all this, it stops. It just stops, not out of exhaustion, but out of blankness. The fire stops because it does not know what it wants. It just burns because it has to.
It slowly recedes back into the heart. What does it want? Does it even want anything or am I just that combustible on the inside?

I guess, the heart wants what it wants.