i was born wax,
shaped not for warmth, but for giving it,
a candle too willing to burn
just to brighten someone else’s dinner table.

they never asked where the fire came from,
only if the lighting was soft enough
to keep the mood gentle.

my wick was too short for longevity,
but i stretched it anyway,
one inch of flame for every mile of their comfort.
i quieted my flicker so no one saw
how much it hurt to glow.

they praised my stillness.
they never heard the sizzle
of my silence melting me down.