Sunday, September 20, 2015

Why I burn

When you could no longer see the light in me,
That was the day I became the darkness.
That was when I burnt out every little flame still burning in me. 


Why do I still need your fire to keep burning?
Why do you keep kindling my bones?

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Mist

The last time I saw him,
he said he loved me
For the first time ever.
He never told me.
He mouthed the words out.
As if the taste of those words would hurt me.
As if the spite and rage and anger and hurt would make stay.
As if the bitterness of the sound would burn his mouth.
But that's okay.
I am gone.
Gone like the mist.

Friday, September 11, 2015

Fire

A fire is a beautiful kind of poetry.
Because it burns with you.
It will never let you burn alone.
Because fire knows.
Fire knows in its sinews,
In its heartbeat.
It is a romantic.

It will die with you. Within you.