Monday, February 9, 2015


I light a candle and watch the flames. I hold my hand above the orange; it’s so beautiful, and I want that. I want to be beautiful and warm. It burns, but it focuses me. I am centered. My hand aches and my eyes tear up, but I hold my hand closer still. Screaming seems melodramatic; most things about myself seem to be these days. I hear the rain outside and my record player inside; it’s beautiful. I am a part of this; I am connected to this fire. It burns me, licks me, dances inside of me, warms my frigid core. My hand is raw, and I feel a sense of accomplishment, of pride. I've been strong. I understand the fire. Beautiful, destructive, and fragile.

My hand is too close to the fire, and I accidentally smother the flame. The dark thoughts cloud my mind.