My body is a weeping candle.
Slow
Messy
Hot.
Fingers scratch below soft collarbones; skin buckles and slides away. Tearing into the cavern of my chest. Desperation pours out of every crevice. Each drip of wax, a lament of life once lived. Shoveling mangled flesh with battered hands, snapping and cracking bones in a carnage to grasp at the pulsing mound of withering tissue. The center of all that is myself, squeezing with merciless animosity. Not a hint of valor between the tattered knuckles and lacerated wound. Whisking away the soul piece that fills this body of life. I do not wish to feel this anymore. Because what is love if not a melancholic emptiness sitting to sink in the ocean of wax. Infatuation to the point of self-destruction. I rather rip this contributor from my body and rid myself of the incessant nagging of need and longing, than to leave it for someone to wretch from my grasp, to employ their desires. An injured heart left with no cure for its ailments. So, the loathing befalls me, the fire alight, burning all that remains of my being into heaps of wax.
