~
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm⚠️
~
I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia,
Goddess of the hearth.
But this time,
I will not be returning
home.
Don't you get it?
I've burned it down
already.
Perhaps there shall exist no
redemption
for my incendiarism.
Perhaps there is no saving
a pyromaniac
from
her pyromantic sins
from getting drunk
off molotov cocktails
to baptizing her
melancholic fingers
in candle wax
to thrusting her head
in the oven,
where carbon monoxide
steals away her remaining
strands of breath.
Tell me is it still arson
if it is yourself you are
setting on fire?--
I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone
like it is fragrance
rouge my lips
with gunpowder,
every word an angry bullet
ricocheting off my teeth
and back down my throat.
I am circus act of a girl,
swallowing my own fire
just to survive
Ironic, isn't it?
Because for me,
survival entails
burning myself alive.
Soon,
I will have no teeth left
to bite these bullets:
This sadness.
This anger
rises from the
chasms of my soul
like bile.
Strange--
I always thought
myself to be the
epitome
of darkness.
Perhaps I simply
lured
the darkness towards me
like an eclipse of moths--
and you know
what everyone says about
moths & flames,
don't you?
It's funny now
that I think about it:
how the stars also
inhabit darkness,
how when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on
fire.
And where there is fire,
destruction is sure to
follow.
It is no wonder
all of my dreams--
those of
love.
magic.
verse.
have shuddered to
ash.
I make snow angels
in these ashes,
stretching my tongue out,
the remnants of
desire
scorching my tastebuds.
Here I lie,
like an extinguished
cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.
But the stars
aren't too fond of
nicotine
even though
the very atoms
that comprise my essence
contain the stuff of galaxies.
But, oh , how these galaxies have
evaded
my brooding grasp.
When my fire
begins to dwindle,
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--
lap at the iridescent
gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely
street corners;
sear campfire stories
across my palm lines
(I try to read
my future,
but the smoke
hangs too heavy);
strike matches across
my petrified wrists
just to feel something.
After all,
what am I without
my hellfire--
they could not
save me from it;
they could not
save me
from burning.
But perhaps the
true peril
was never in burning,
but in
burning out.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 3:06 PM UTC
~
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm⚠️
~
I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia,
Goddess of the hearth.
But this time,
I will not be returning
home.
Don't you get it?
I've burned it down
already.
Perhaps there shall exist no
redemption
for my incendiarism.
Perhaps there is no saving
a pyromaniac
from
her pyromantic sins
from getting drunk
off molotov cocktails
to baptizing her
melancholic fingers
in candle wax
to thrusting her head
in the oven,
where carbon monoxide
steals away her remaining
strands of breath.
Tell me is it still arson
if it is yourself you are
setting on fire?--
I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone
like it is fragrance
rouge my lips
with gunpowder,
every word an angry bullet
ricocheting off my teeth
and back down my throat.
I am circus act of a girl,
swallowing my own fire
just to survive
Ironic, isn't it?
Because for me,
survival entails
burning myself alive.
Soon,
I will have no teeth left
to bite these bullets:
This sadness.
This anger
rises from the
chasms of my soul
like bile.
Strange--
I always thought
myself to be the
epitome
of darkness.
Perhaps I simply
lured
the darkness towards me
like an eclipse of moths--
and you know
what everyone says about
moths & flames,
don't you?
It's funny now
that I think about it:
how the stars also
inhabit darkness,
how when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on
fire.
And where there is fire,
destruction is sure to
follow.
It is no wonder
all of my dreams--
those of
love.
magic.
verse.
have shuddered to
ash.
I make snow angels
in these ashes,
stretching my tongue out,
the remnants of
desire
scorching my tastebuds.
Here I lie,
like an extinguished
cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.
But the stars
aren't too fond of
nicotine
even though
the very atoms
that comprise my essence
contain the stuff of galaxies.
But, oh , how these galaxies have
evaded
my brooding grasp.
When my fire
begins to dwindle,
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--
lap at the iridescent
gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely
street corners;
sear campfire stories
across my palm lines
(I try to read
my future,
but the smoke
hangs too heavy);
strike matches across
my petrified wrists
just to feel something.
After all,
what am I without
my hellfire--
they could not
save me from it;
they could not
save me
from burning.
But perhaps the
true peril
was never in burning,
but in
burning out.
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