her

She was the fire. Equal parts enticing and terrifying; I have yet to decide which attracted me more. Her colours, her loyal sparks, her relentless passion, and her radiating warmth. Oh how easily I mistook them for comfort. It wasn't until my lungs were black from her smoke, that I realized they were a warning all along.

She was the flames, I was the house on fire. My bones snapped under the pressure and my chipped paint curled closer to the touch of her fingertips. I find myself praying for my foundation to hold out a little longer, just so I can hear her say my name once more. Our sparks ignite the dry grass and as my smoke clouds the evening stars, I find peace in knowing no one is coming to save me.

I know that I would rather go up in her flames than ever be touched by the cold of the night. I know that this shade of orange we make right now is my new favourite colour. I know that no one will ever hold me this close as I die by their hands.

Dear God, if you save me now I will never forgive you. For if her love means my destruction, if her light means my demise, just let me burn.