a sheer curtain caught in a crossfire,
i stand here,
pure,
still,
and burning tenderly —
burning softly before your eyes.

i liken myself
to a child's laughter falling
on patches of sunlight —
to persephone giving in
to the licking flames,

but she is no more than
a fading ghost,
and my skin —
no more than a haunted woodland.

i hold on to the flames,
to this perplexity:
how can immolation
look so soft,
so cleansing,
so **** hypnotic?

when it feels everything but.

a sheer curtain caught in a crossfire,
i stand here,
pure,
still,
burning tenderly
into oblivion —
just as softly before your eyes.