My heart is not caught in the flame, it is the flame.
I am not hopeful anymore.
I am unravelling at the speed of light and losing all sense of self.
Home isn't in my hands or my body or my heart. It's in the eyes of the people who hate me the most. It's in the love I gave away so carelessly as a child, like flowers in my hand.
I lived recklessly, whispering sweet prayers under my breath like it might be enough to protect me from myself. But I was predictable and the pit in my stomach gnawed at me like a lioness, but she wasn't anything new.
I thought I understood what it meant to be blue, but I was a self-proclaimed optimist, and tiredness has found me again. And this time, it has me by the throat.
This is not burnout. I'm choking on my passion.
I'm drowning in a pool I filled up with my own two hands.
My heart is not caught in the flame, it is the flame.
And it has been crying out for help since I was a kid. But I was easy to trick, and I mistook my pain for poetry every time.
