You burned me
the way the sun burns skin.
At first,
you were warm,
comforting
lighting every inch of me
with your light.
But the longer I stayed,
the more it changed.
Slowly.
Quietly.
The comfort turned into heat
not unbearable,
but not what it was.
Then the heat became burning.
Warmth turned to blistering.
No longer comforting,
now every inch of my skin
is marked
by your light.
It’s been a while
since I felt your warmth,
but it still lingers.
Blisters remain,
like painful reminders.
I’m haunted
by what we were.
You burned me
the way the sun burns skin.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 1:43 PM UTC
You burned me
the way the sun burns skin.
At first,
you were warm,
comforting
lighting every inch of me
with your light.
But the longer I stayed,
the more it changed.
Slowly.
Quietly.
The comfort turned into heat
not unbearable,
but not what it was.
Then the heat became burning.
Warmth turned to blistering.
No longer comforting,
now every inch of my skin
is marked
by your light.
It’s been a while
since I felt your warmth,
but it still lingers.
Blisters remain,
like painful reminders.
I’m haunted
by what we were.
You burned me
the way the sun burns skin.
The second poem out of my small series