I pulled you in as the flames rose higher,
your breath crackling like broken glass.
You didn’t cry out — just trembled,
a soul unraveling under its own mass.

You were burning —
not metaphorically,
but truly, desperately alight.
Still, I wrapped my arms around you
as if love could extinguish fright.

I knew I’d blister.
I knew I'd bleed.
But pain is nothing
when guilt feels like need.

Your agony was silent thunder —
a war that raged beneath your skin.
And I, addicted to your chaos,
let it seep through me, let it in.

You didn’t ask to be held that way.
But you didn’t pull away either.
Maybe you needed the lie of comfort
as much as I needed to be the healer.

It’s pleasure wrapped in quiet violence,
a kiss carved from opposing truths.
A soft addiction dressed in longing,
a ghost that dances inside our youth.

A smile carved from shards of sorrow,
a touch that both soothes and stains.
Like drinking beauty from a broken bottle—
sharp, intoxicating, edged with pain.

We are two wounds, aching in rhythm.
One blazing. One begging to burn.
And still I held you,
hoping my ruin might
be the balm you never earned.

Because love, at its worst, is selfish.
And mercy, at times, is cruel.
And I…
I keep hugging the flame
just to feel something brutal.