Three-Thirty AM

I burn myself frequently;

Because if fire fails to cause me pain,

Then everything else will do the same.

I have fire in my soul,

It fails to burn my profound inside.

But on the outside I am meaningless;

And the fire ravages me hungrily.

I am weak,

My fire but a spark.

As I sit here at my peak,

The lights begin to dark

And I’m about to fall apart.

Falling apart.

My fire crackles and burns in a dance of passion, a confident façade.

But I give no sign and you pay no heed.

Like a mirage.

I can feel it crawling-

Ice in my veins.

It’s coming for my dull flame.

My fire, alight in glory, will soon be smoke.

Replaced with the coldness, the faceted hardness, of a diamond, so small it’s considered a joke. 

I am now ice.

Rigid I stand.

Smoking and steaming-

A ghost of what once was.

Staring                                                  and

Waiting                                                 and

Drifting                                                 and

Freezing                                               and

Crying                                                   and

Drying                                                   and

Dying.

The ice has carved a deep crevice in me.

I am barren and wasted.

I’m melting away-

But I don’t know how-

Look at me and tell me I’ll be okay.

Tell me before my knees begin to bow.

I’m fucking nothing.

These two elements rage in my body.

Clichéd to mean opposition.

But the truth is;

Both tear me apart equally so,

Until I am neither.

A shell

Overlooked and obsolete.

Hollow without my ice.

Dull without my flame.

To face the wind

Alone.