The Last Cut

“Another cut—fueled passion; flames and dies—ash and cinder scattered across the night skies.”

The blade gleamed once,

silver against my skin,

its edge a mirror of the fire

that burned without mercy.

Each cut a spark,

each wound a flare,

and love the tinder

that consumed me.

══ ❧ ══

The flames leapt high,

then faltered,

collapsing into themselves

until only cinder remained.

I gathered the ash in my palms,

its grit sharp,

its heat ghosting my skin.

It clung like memory,

refusing to scatter.

══ ❧ ══

Even the trees bowed low,

their branches scarred with smoke.

The earth hummed beneath my knees,

bearing the weight of endings.

The wind carried my sigh,

folding it into the embers,

as though regret itself

were fuel for the night.

══ ❧ ══

So I pressed the dagger deeper—

not to wound,

but to sever the tether.

And when the flame surrendered,

it left me with silence,

with shadow,

with ash that remembers.

══ ❧ ══

Endings are not empty.

They are a fire’s last gift:

a cut, a spark,

a coal still smoldering—

a vow carried forward

into the dark.