The Fireplace

There's a fire that stays lit in the very pit of my stomach.

It burns when he raises his voice,

It burns when his knuckles clinch, they shift from pink to stark white,

It burns when his spit splashes on my face,

It burns when my skin turns red in his hands,

I've starved this fire,

abandoned it,

flooded it,

snuffed it out,

the soot floats its way up through my organs,

my bones,

my blood,

Steam travels out of my ears,

I exhale the dark matter, cough up the sickness, purge the poison,

Yet

My fingertips are still blackened, my eyes still red, my lips chapped,

There is no end, no healing, no rebirth,

Though steam has replaced the flame,

The burns still remain.