And at last—
the candle realized
it had burnt
by the thread,
it had kept safe
inside its heart.

But even in death,
as it watched the thread
burn along—
longed to protect it.

If someone asked where i lived id say within the space that forms right before you deeply smile.
i’d tell them it’s a dangerous, deceptive driveway.
i’d tell them coming out of town, it’s a right down everything avenue. Then, a hard left about half a mile into the woods, you’ll know you’re there when you reach absolutely nothing. at. all.

War is never-ending.
It doesn’t forgive anyone— not even those who created it.
It will enslave every piece of your soul, strip shards out one-by-one.
It will leave you as a soulless husk in the aftermath of it all.
Your eyes widened.
Your breath constantly short.
Your head always turned over your shoulder.
Watching.
Waiting.
You weren’t forgiven for fighting in something you never even asked to be apart of.
War doesn’t stop for anyone.

You can’t eat money.
Not when every river has dried up. Not when every tree has burned, its ashes coating the sky—when our children think it’s snow.
Not when the world is too hot to inhabit. When our scarred bodies bear the marks of explosions nearby.
You can’t eat money.
Not when our teeth have fallen from the radiation.
Not when our fingers are gone, our brains decimated—our regret the only thought we have left:
How did we let this happen?