I was taught
love
was the
wrong details
of an oil painting.

the image:
a blanket
wrapped around
a stranger
in a desert night,
desperately trying
to keep warm
by a fire.

I was taught
the only way

for anyone
to love me

was for them
to light me
ablaze

stack of
kindling
Destroyed
by lover’s
presence.

I longed for that
feeling.

my heart
prickling
with shards of flame,

smoldering myself
to death
as I fell asleep.

i fantasised
about
the next
oxygen starved
donkey punch
to the chest.

i’ve been
romanticizing
wrong
painted details
so long,

When he
tried to whisper,

“darling,
you are much more
than broken branches,”

 i could not
hear him.

I was
deathly high,
flying,
dust in the wind,

reminiscing
my own
tortured ashes.

When all
you’ve known

is the burn
of a
direct flame,

you become
numb
to
warm kindness
of a fleece blanket.

You forget
you are subject,

meant to survive
the arid desert
with a loving touch.

But everyday
your nerves
come
one step closer
to healing themselves
in this love
you’ve found.

Let it
snuggle in
through your veins,

repair
altitude busted
ear drums,

to ensure
survival
another night.

—