Burning; To Be set Alight or to Take Flight?
They say that love hurts, but never that it will burn. We don't know what gets through our skin until we feel ourselves melt, a person turned blob; this is one way to reach rock bottom.
Sure, passion and connection exist, some might even say that it is what stokes the resilience that is our lives; to be burnt is to have played with fire, but can you blame us for the warmth it tries to drag us in with? We are forced into the need of human connection as it has been proven to stabilize our crash landing out of the womb. We are conceptualized in the dance of two and are grown within the folds of our creator; we were never meant to not feel warm, but how do we know when too much of it will leave us burnt, even scarred?
What was once oxygen that got us through our day has now been replaced by the fire stirred within the heart because they remembered our favorite color. I usually hate the color red because it reminds me of blood, but I don’t seem to mind it when it is seen on my cheeks from my lovers kiss or heard through my heartbeat as I am taken into their body heat.
When we fall in love, we should be asking ourselves if we are okay with the possibility of being burned alive at the stake. I say ALIVE because we never truly die from the loss of love, no, we burn the version of ourselves that did try again, feeling every bit of pain pass through our largest organ, our most emotionally sensitive, every and all lessons dissipated to the wind. It makes no sense to give ourselves away if all we get in return are scars, of which require the utmost careful planning to hide or upstage with humor or with each soul we see burning in the distance.
Should I send a smoke signal out to those brave enough to come rescue and rehabilitate a girl burnt up by her own rope, wrapped around the idea of love? I have died before by the lies of someone's love, confusing their breath on my neck as the oxygen to my heart. In this fashion as a romantic, I have come to accept the fact that I am a ride-or-die!
Like I've said in past posts, I've always wanted to be a witch. I think it's the fact that they conjure up ideas and routines based on observation to help others in need, hopefully before these others get burnt or hurt. At their core they are givers, but they receive the reputation of being cold-blooded once they choose to explore the idea of love that DOES know bounds. A shack and cat are more important for basic survival than the emotional upsets of others!
And so the tales of women scorned become their decision to practice and preach the expression of individuality, something women still battle with in the 21st century; safety and all that (you look at the statistics!) Leave us alone and we won’t turn you into a toad, deal?
I am scarred pink in the places my memory chooses to remember my past loves, a blush now turned into embarrassment because I let myself believe someone would set me free instead of binding me to a gasoline-soaked tree; the worst part being that that tree was grown from our starting seed.
It is remarkable to be able to take what we have been given and create endless outcomes. I understand what makes love hurt so bad, with resources such as memories and mementos once kindle for two to create warmth now scorching the partner who dared for an extra flare. Be careful not of what you build, but of who you build your future with as it can all burn down in an instant.
My shoulders once slumped at the ashes of lives I built and now burned. I carried them around long enough to see them as pieces of me no longer a part of who I am now, but as what I could be; this ash eventually dissipated into the trees. They carry me from cave to cave as I journey to find the rest of me that has since gone with the wind. I now build this life to shelter myself from the oh-so-strong oxygen that I name love because it will give me life. But too much and I might develop serious dragon breath, which would be cool but super destructive.
All my softness is turning to callousness, ashen by the realization that I may not be able to look to the sky as I tie myself down to the stake again. No, I need to keep my head down in case the flowers begin to look like dead leaves, too easy can they be set ablaze and leave enough time for the gatherer to run away. Bouquets hide the truth that what is not taken care of will eventually die, as they are only as fresh as the first day they are given. Yes, I understand that we all tire, flowers and people alike, but we continue to survive by the kindness of our foundation. Even stakes have to be put in the same ground that the flowers sprout from. I guess, don’t take hurt too personally and be happy that you get to experience your own rebirth from the heat that melded you into the version you are today; only you can decide if you’ll sparkle inspiringly for or cut those that come too close.
We all make choices. What one person sees as kindle, another sees as a use for fertilizer. I personally love the idea of always helping one another grow, but some people just want to watch the world burn.
