I've spent most of my life
being fascinated by the flame,
trying to figure out how close I can get
without burning myself.

At the times where I've handled it closely,
it has left me charred—
but when I've tried casting it away altogether,
life is grey, cold, and lifeless.

So I keep returning
to the edge of the flame—
fingers trembling—
hoping this time,
it'll warm me
without consuming me.

Sometimes, the flame finds its way back—
not sparked, not summoned—
reminding me
it was never something I lit,
only something I carry.

I find myself haunted by the flicker—
drawn not by recklessness,
but by the unbearable quiet
of a world without warmth.

I stained the pages of my mind trying to rewrite the story.
I tore out whole chapters, hoping to change the leading character.
But with chapters missing, we lost all direction.
The ink of yesterday had already dried—
The only lines I could change were the ones yet to be put to paper.
It took him and me years to reread and transcribe those old pages—
not to rewrite them, but to finally accept them.
Through repairing the chapters passed,
I started understanding the character more deeply.
And I accepted him—
not just the good,
but him in his entirety.

When I started
filling the cracks in my soul,
something soft
slipped out with the bile.

To be honest,
I’m not even sure
what that piece was anymore.

With the fury gone,
so too went the color —
the richness.

And while I’m satisfied
the hatred exists only in memory,
I long for that
beautifully vibrant world.