Has it been a long time since I've thrown myself into the fire,
since I've kindled the flames with my flesh,
until I was the burning.

My softness would dance,
flit, and keep the night warm
until the deepest parts of me were glowing embers.

Would I slowly burn out
as phoenix ashes cleansing rebirth.

Maybe the kindling is wet,
or smothered,
suffocating in warm memories;
smouldering passion.

I know flames are silent,
stealing life from anywhere,
grasping at the chance to be heard.

The noise,
hypnotic,
and never enough to be satisfied by.