There’s an illusion within fire: dangerous up close yet beautiful from afar.
It’s like the sun. Or at least, how I saw you,
engulfed in its flames. This back-and-forth game we played–
you kept away from me knowing I depended on you.
I warned you of this entire world on fire.
Somehow, I saw the smoke before you felt the flames.
Or maybe, you’d been around fire for so long you couldn’t feel
its warmth anymore. You just felt its coldness, as if your skin
was numbed to it. Tears had long dried up.
They turned into charcoal dust settling around blistering wounds.
How was optimism a way of healing? You cannot mend amputated limbs with bandages, but that didn’t stop you from trying. And it didn’t stop me from wanting to help you.
I remember wanting to touch you. To be felt.
Fire is self-destructive, it burns everything it touches.
is this why you don’t love anything? You realized how easy
things broke when you were a child. Did you feel your hands were cursed?
The jagged lines in your palms being proof some demon had put a hex on you?
So when I said you couldn’t hurt me, you were unconvinced.
Even glass, with its tough exterior, is still fragile enough to shatter.
Is that what happened to you?
Does that explain the sharp edges in places that were once whole?
Since human beings aren’t the sun, we cannot make fire unless we already were.
So you won’t convince me that candle light became wildfire on its own.
Tell me then, who were you before you were set ablaze?
When heartbreak revealed you: the arsonist.
You set the world on fire simply to watch it burn
and I cannot save you from yourself.