Broken, death, Poetry

Aflame | Poetry

Your gift box came with a rose candle;
to banish the darkness, I light its wick;
I feel a sharp sting pierce my frail skin,
your present came with no candle stick.

Desperate to dispel the bitter despair,
l mistake the duping flickers for hope;
I'd rather perish in the warmth of light,
not in the gloom where awaits my rope. 

Does love damage and maim this way?
Am I to sacrifice my blood and breath?
Knowing full well that I cannot escape,
with ribbons, you wrap the gift of death.

The smell of paraffin numbs my brain,
I make poor decisions again and again;
"out, stubborn spot", I rant, rave, rage,
scraping hot stains that cause me pain.

By second, the pain gets more intense;
as the candle burns, I wince and shake,
feel my broken heart burst into flames,
press my hand on lips to stop this ache.

When your gift, at last, will near its end,
I know not for how long Iโ€™ll have to rake,
scratch, peel and scruff my bruised self,
watch in pure horror my dried skin flake.

You hold me at ransom for several days -
throughout all seasons, polish my chain;
I've lost my faith in all that you profess;
you call it Love when I crumble in pain.

ยฉ Copyright: Leah Chrestien. September 2022.  The post Aflame | Poetry first appeared on The Ecstatic Storyteller. The author reserves the right to the content. No reproduction of content in any form is permitted without the prior consent of the author.

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