I have a flicker of hope within myself. It guides me through the darkness. I can feel the burning sensation: strong and powerful. Yet, it's embracing. It's warm, like my mother's arms around myself-reminding me that I am strong and powerful.
What my mom doesn't know, is that I feel weak. I'm the dying candle left out for too long, wanting to engulf the entire place in flames, but instead, burns until I'm nothing but smoke.
Suddenly, that flicker is gone. The hope has vanished, and there's nothing but darkness.
My mother would sit me down by the fireplace, hot cocoa warm in our bellies. She'd tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and tell me, "You are beautiful." Yes, yes I am.
I now tuck her hair behind her ear and hold her hand. "You are beautiful. Please don't leave me." But I watched the light fade out of her eyes, and my world was dark.
People always said I had my mother's eyes. Eyes blue as the ocean. I taste the salt on my tongue, from the tears that have rolled down my cheeks.
No, I don't want to see a mirror.
I try not to focus on my surroundings. Not on my loved ones dressed in black, and not on the candles held in their hands.
The sight of fire sparks something in me, and it's not strength or power.
Hatred.
Hatred for this world, hatred for what has to come with it, and what has to go.
Weakness is all I can feel.
A dark tunnel lies ahead of me. My vision is as black as night. My hand guides me down, trailing on the cold wall beside me. Every step is an echo. Thump, thump. If I have the strength to continue down this path, I'm not sure.
Suddenly, there's a flicker of light. A torch ignites, then another and another. I realize this isn't a tunnel at all, but instead a pathway filled with hope. A pathway to my future. A road to my destiny.
"You are never alone. Know that with all of your heart. If you ever feel like you are, just know that I am with you every step of the way. I am here to light your way."
That flicker of dying hope, is now a ball of yellow flames, and I have the strength and power to let my world burn.
YOU ARE READING
Dandelions are Flowers
PoetryWhen you hear, "weed" you can't help but think of all of the bad things. But when you hear, "flower" you think of all of the good things. Why should dandelions be full of the bad, when they can be full of the good?
