The flame is miniscule and intermittent, I don't do anything to stop its growth; the warmth grants me comfort.
Each night I stoke the flames, allowing it to continue burning my skin ever so slightly.
The intensity of the flame on my skin grants me temporary relief of sorts,
bewildered by the temptation and comfort it presents me.
I'll feed the flame, just once.

The flame has grown to a substantial size, the burn and pleasure it grants along with it.
I must feed it, it is my only friend.
I feel reliant on it, for it is my only method of escapism and trumps all else.
Oh the burn, the pain is so much worse; my flesh seared and mind charred.
I must stop before there is no stopping for i will turn to ash soon enough.
I have to try, for me.

my mind feels scrambled as i wade away from the flame.
i know my pain could subside if i just give in but i must not, should not but the pain... it wallows within me, my skin aches and teeth chatter.
please make it stop, i cannot handle this without the embers.

once more,
just please relieve me flame,
i need you... right?
please?

The shadowy figure looms over me, incoherent rambles of love and apologies coming from his figure as the blood drips from my nose. Father promises not to do it again, but he lies, just as he does to mother. My will falters as I forgive him again because he's my father, right? Deep down, he must care; he has to. Please don't hurt me, Father? I'm sorry for making you angry. I will finish my food next time, I swear. My mother is a figment of what she used to be, for she does not hold me like she used to; the light in her eyes has left. Why do I feel sorry for him after he 'punishes' me? He does love me, of course; it was my fault anyway. Maybe my next birthday will be better; perhaps he will stop hurting me and my mother.
Maybe.
I love you, Father, forgive me.

Oh, moonlight, you grant me strength, concealing my skin and shame, for I destroyed everything to remove the suns light. The burden was too much to handle; hiding in the dark is my only friend.

Pushing the sun away has not granted me peace of mind; however, I miss the sun's warmth while enjoying the momentary pleasure. Oh, sun, your gaze would bring me shame, but I would relish it now. I beg for your return, though I understand you won't listen.

But oh, sun, I couldn’t allow your sight because it would reveal my burdens, mind, body and soul to you, but the cold darkness of the moon is destroying me.

Oh, sun, please gaze upon me one last time; reveal my penitence, for the distance between us allowed me to conceal it.

Forgive me, Sun.
Please forgive me, Sun
Sun, I’m sorry I’ve done this to you. Return unto me and forgive me. Although I do not deserve you, I yearn for your light and warmth.
To see myself in the light is to suffer, but the warmth would bring comfort, and darkness never could.
Goodbye, Sun.

As autumn hits, I find myself wallowing in my misery. Memories of what was and could’ve been gush through my head like the wind, along with the memories of you, like gorgeous autumn leaves flowing smoothly.
Without my wind I would not see you, for without you there are no seasons.
I shall soon stand against the wind and fall from the tree, floating above the ground as though it were still the fledgling birth of our love.
All my wind, my autumn leaves, my memories will soon compost along with me; for I will fade from existence.
My sweet Autumn, return unto me, for without you there is only wind.

The thorny branches of her touch have encompassed my skin and bone, turning what once was my tree of knowledge into a limerence-filled snag. I find myself wanting more, to lose my unique roots and fibre for the chance that our utter being and roots may intertwine.
To inosculate.
To be whole.

A hotel room in Rome. In front of me, a young lady is standing. When I look into her eyes, I can see the darkest midnight sky, and the waves of her hair are like the champagne in the glass she is holding in her hand.

My heart is so bright, not because of its soft whiteness, but because of the dreams that dwell in my chest thanks to your blue eyes.
I tried, like any story, to hide my flowers so you wouldn't see the trace of your love on my face.
My waters are warm, and all these phrases don't hide my longing for you. Yes, I am a prisoner of my longing for you, and it's not strange to see in my heart all the wishes that hide their dreams with a silent veil.
I am a story of longing; my rivers are nothing but a legendary face of waiting, and my boats are nothing but calls that know no destination but you.
I am your lover who hides his love with all happiness.

Poetry should console one with the many tortures of existence. One should feel understood by a poem. A poem should say, "It's okay, so long as I'm here." Pain and death: The black ink and the white space of our letters, and the language: It is with this language that we write life, beauty, and joy. Love. Through poetry. Poetry shouldn't be to show off, or to make money, to get views, it shouldn't even be for itself. It should be for whoever the poem itself is for. For humanity. This doesn't mean all poetry has to be sad poetry. Happy poetry is okay as well. But there's something so utterly impermanent about a brief moment of happiness. The sweetest touch has never left a scar. But the sweetest pain - that
Is poetry.