i have tiny jars that are shelved
perfectly inside my brain
from category a to z,
sorted by themes,
and from one to a hundred
—a scale of how painful
life is in my repetitive experience.

i keep all my memories sealed
like a handful of fireflies shoved in a jar
that only live for three days;
i may forget every scenario with ease
but never the dying flicker—the feeling
that grow dim in each canister.

god, how fragile am i that it only takes
a trigger for each glass to combust tragically,
good thing i'm the only one
who knows how to pull it.
     i wonder which repressed emotions
     are going to choke me violently tonight.

❝ while he runs from darkness
  she purposefully turns off her light
  he saves her flicker and makes it burn

  like a california fire guided by his wind
  she spreads through the mainland
  curving through the hidden crevices of the world
  her scorching heat;
  felt and seen and adored

  as he runs from the darkness,
  her light continues to burn a fire blue
  the shadows slowly melt away from her touch
  and he feels her warmth and basks in it

  she thought she has saved him from the monsters
  she thought she has saved him enough to stop running

  but the shadows crept back in
  slowly, until it consumed him entirely
  and off the ledge he went

  her savior,
  reduced to nothing but a pool of dusk
  and emptiness
  and sadness

  she was but a flicker but he preserved her
  a flicker which continued to burn in her heart

  so she savored the beauty of his grey tones;
  found and accepted his darkness
  in all the bright places ❞

Human life is funny. I tend to think of us as candles.
And we flicker.
We’re small.
We die.

But, you feed that candle, it can be a fire.
And we burn.
We blind.
We remember.

I could write
on emotion alone.
Through bitterness,
I sought beauty.
With rage,
I expressed
the torrent within.
All was aflame,
all had burned brightly.

But now,
it is naught but a flicker.
I pass time quietly,
as the ash of past emotions
blanket the landscape with grey.
I am tired.
I fear I may
never recover.

Candles flicker
with begged forgiveness,

each tender wick
a glowing reminder,

each drop of wax
a tear sliding down
the father’s cheek.

Having lit them all,
I wait for him to come.