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.

Broad shoulders, alkaline appearance, clothes tight fitting for appeal.

As the sun comes halfway through.

Drowsiness with the shoulders sinking—
dragging both the feet and the toes—
limp in the arms, very inconsiderate of what happens at the back.

Vague terms—
Vague slang, slandering the vending machine walking stiff amongst them.

Inserting credits used as name-calling—
in a language acute by their accents.

Last period,
I looked at her—she looked at me.
I take notes—he takes more.

But with the parachute of salt dangling on their noses and not yet inhaled…

Soon they will see a sloth with its arms not tied to a tree rather than a machine.

It’s not over, I’ve got paper and ink
I’m not done with what I think
A thought for the moment, here in time
A word for the page, all in rhyme

Drifting, my mind picks a spot
Telling it all, everything I’ve got
Wouldn’t try and change it
Didn’t try to rearrange it

These things just happen to me
Once a thought, my pen makes me see
Twisting and turning, inside my mind
Words and feelings only I can find

9/12/25